


I Hold With Those Who Favor Fire

by furiedheart



Category: Chris Hemsworth - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom, hiddlesworth - Fandom
Genre: Chris and Tom look at each other a lot, Chris does not ask Tom's permission every time they have sex, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantasy, Goldilocks AU, Hurt/Comfort, Just to be safe, M/M, Magical Elements, Mild Gore, Mildly Dubious Consent, Near Death Experiences, Rough Sex, Sickness, Special secret familiar feelings pass between the two men when they look at each other, Tom is half conscious at the beginning, city boy!tom, depictions of violence, fairy tale AU, hiddlesworth au, in and out of consciousness, mild dub-con, mild mpreg kink, mountain man!chris, non-con at the beginning, scenes of animal butchering for food, they make eye contact, unprepared sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:33:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2822075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiedheart/pseuds/furiedheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris is an ostracized man living alone in the Canadian wilderness. He arrives back home after checking his traps to find a boy lying half frozen inside his cabin.</p><p>Some say the world will end in fire,<br/>Some say in ice.<br/>From what I've tasted of desire<br/>I hold with those who favor fire…<br/>~Fire and Ice, Robert Frost </p><p>“Was it love, or fear of the cold, that led us through the night?” ~Mumford and Sons, Winter Winds</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Hold With Those Who Favor Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duskyhuedladysatan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskyhuedladysatan/gifts), [umakoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/umakoo/gifts), [cunninglingus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cunninglingus/gifts).



> Hi everyone. This work was based on a private prompt from [umakoo](http://umakoo.tumblr.com) and [teresa-dances-in-sequins](http://teresa-dances-in-sequins.tumblr.com) who requested a goldilocks au. I think I also incorporated other fairy tales into it, but that's entirely for people to read into on their own. So, thank you ladies, for sending this my way ;-)
> 
> I dedicate this story to my beta, [duskyhuedladysatan](http://duskyhuedladysatan.tumblr.com) because 1. She is one of the most profoundly brilliant people I know, so tireless in her support of me and my writing, and an amazing friend and human being; and 2. because tomorrow is HER BIRTHDAY OMG!!! Go wish her a happy birthday mmkay! Another great year for this fantastic person!! ily be mine forever. Have a great time on your trip, and get home safe <3 
> 
> [This](https://40.media.tumblr.com/a714ea9078737d607b7e69e38588b6a2/tumblr_n0n96n3Ac61sd7hr8o6_500.png) is Tom as I pictured him during the story. And [this](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6o2whzWqt1rogw23o1_1280.jpg) is Tom as I pictured him later in life. 
> 
> [This](http://fc09.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2014/155/e/9/into_eternity__thor_x_reader_by_tarnisis-d7l17lk.jpg) and [this](http://25.media.tumblr.com/bb634fd490ecfeefe0b63bf31f8e1825/tumblr_mis1exChZq1rmpu2oo4_1280.jpg) and [this](http://cdn03.cdn.socialitelife.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/26/chris-hemsworth-empire-magazine-outtakes-02262013-11.jpg) and [this](http://cdn02.cdn.socialitelife.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/26/chris-hemsworth-empire-magazine-outtakes-02262013-13.jpg) (gawd so MANY) is mountain man Chris. 
> 
> This is my holiday gift to the fandom. I hope you all enjoy!! *hugs*
> 
> Please heed the tagged warnings.
> 
> ***UPDATE*** This story now has fan art by the greatly talented [treemuse](http://treemuse.tumblr.com/)! It's absolutely GORGEOUS. Check it out [here](http://treemuse.tumblr.com/post/106615048018/more-hiddlesworth-fan-art-for-mi-delirio-es-el)
> 
> Thanks again!!

Prologue: Tom

 

Seventeen hours and he didn’t sleep a wink. Not that his anxiety would have let him. He’d kept up a steady heel tap for the first part of the flight, finally pulling out one of the books he’d packed in his bag, burning through it in under five hours.

He’d had his bag ready even before the dinner at Joseph’s house. One spare pair of trousers, the black T-shirt his mother hated, the one with the Rolling Stones tongue. His phone, ear buds, the picture of him and his Aunt Margaret, Domino sitting between them. He was a good dog, Tom thought, blinking away the tears, remembering how Domino had been put down after his aunt’s death. So abruptly, without even asking if Tom would like to have him.

It didn’t matter now. It’s not like his mother would let him keep something as trivial as a _pet_ in their home.

Her home.

It was Tom’s no longer.

He’d wanted to bring his laptop and more of his books, but he didn’t want her or his sisters to catch on to his plans. Tom hadn’t known if hacking into the lawyer’s computer would work. He could have easily been caught, been returned to his mother, embarrassed, just one more victory she would have had over him.

But he hadn’t been caught. The money was his now—had always been his—and he had it all with him in traveler’s check tucked deep in his backpack, in an envelope the bank had provided to him. It seemed to burn a hole through his skin where it rested against his hip during the taxi ride to the airport, Tom keeping an eye on the cars around them, wondering if he was being followed that very moment. She wouldn’t do anything extreme. The whole thing would seem very uncouth to her, such a _disappointing_ action on his part, and she wouldn’t suffer negative attention on the family. But she would know of his plans and that would be the end of Tom’s dreams to be rid of her and his sisters. His mother was ruthless in her own terrible way, and Tom knew that this would be his only chance to escape her and her plans to make him into some fat baby-siring lawyer who needed to rise in the ranks and gain the attention of the royals, or else. Tom didn’t know what the ‘or else’entailed, but he was tired of living in such acute fear of her whims and efforts to correct him and mold him into yet another one of her pawns. She loved his sisters better anyway. Let them embark on the impossible ascension to the throne.

With only his real name to work with, Tom had jumped on the first flight to the United States. Detroit, Michigan. What he would do there, he wasn’t sure, but he felt getting out of England was imperative. There were so many outlets from England; he could only hope she would get caught up in figuring out what method of transportation he’d used.

When the plane landed, it was below freezing and Tom, completely unfamiliar with the Fahrenheit system and what it meant in terms of temperature, had tried walking down the street in only his thin jumper and jeans. Shivering, he dashed into the gift shop of a bus depot and bought himself a cheap brown jacket and burgundy wool beanie, thinking his socks and thin boots would suffice to get him around the city. Maybe he would check into a hotel, consider his options. Maybe he could travel on and settle in a different state so he could apply for a permanent visa. He wouldn’t need work right away. But he’d rather be prepared.

It was as he was paying that he caught the man staring at him. He was a good looking man, probably late twenties, with a small smile and brown eyes. He smiled at Tom from over a small stand of cheap curio, and Tom reddened. He faced the cashier in a hurry, pulling out his wallet to pay. Thank goodness he’d had the foresight to convert his money into dollars before boarding the flight. What use is having a small fortune when it wasn’t accepted currency?

He left the shop in a hurry, searching for the loo in the bigger belly of the terminal. The stalls were empty, so he took the biggest one at the end. Cutting off the tags, he shrugged into his new jacket and then searched the bag for the beanie. Only, it wasn’t there. He cursed under his breath and reminded himself to stop in the gift shop again to get it back. With a deep sigh, he rested back against the tiled wall, feeling the weight of what he’d done and all that had happened settle heavily on his shoulders. He was in another country, a bag full of money at his feet, and not a single idea about what to do now.

The door to the restroom opened and closed, and Tom straightened, thinking it was best to keep moving.

“Hey, uh…kid?”

Tom froze.

There was no one else in the restroom besides himself and whoever entered. He stayed quiet, biting his lip.

“Listen, I think this is yours?”

The man’s American accent still sounded foreign in Tom’s ears, and he hesitated, heart pounding in his throat. Very slowly, he unlocked the stall and opened the door a crack. The same man who had been staring at Tom in the gift shop was standing by the sinks, Tom’s burgundy beanie in his hands. He held it out, smiling at him again.

Tom gulped and took a tentative step out.

He reached for the beanie and snatched it quickly, shuffling back a few steps. The man grinned and stuffed his hands in his pockets, staring at Tom. He had such lovely brown eyes, a sprinkle of freckles over his nose. His hair, dark brown also, flopped casually off his forehead. Tom wanted to touch it.

He cleared his throat, and gestured to the beanie.

“Thanks. I thought I’d dropped it or someone had snagged it off me.”

“I couldn’t let you go out like that in this weather.” The man ducked his head, laughing self-consciously.

Tom ripped the tag off and pulled the beanie over his curls, stuffing it down so it sat snug.

“How—how does it look?” he asked, cheeks pink.

The man exhaled and nodded. “Good. It looks—.” He cleared his throat. “It looks really good.”

There was something slightly expectant in the man’s face that was mirroring Tom’s own excitement. For years he’d been conditioned to follow orders and conform to societal and familial restrictions. And here was a man who was cute and shuffling from foot to foot as they stared awkwardly at each other, clearly wanting something more. Would what he’d been yearning for finally happen, here, in this bathroom with this stranger?

And as if the thoughts whispering in his brain had sprung to life, the man crossed the distance between them in two long steps and grabbed Tom up in a hard kiss. Eyes bulging, Tom squealed. They fell back against the cold wall of the first stall, rattling loudly from their weight. The man’s lips were warm, the hands holding his head were big and moist, but Tom quickly grabbed hold of his jacket and hauled him closer.

Their lips smacked loudly as they stumbled into the far stall where Tom left his bag. Slamming the door closed, the man fell on him again, kissing his cheeks and down his neck, Tom’s skin flushed with heat and disbelief. He was being kissed by a man, finally.

Carding his fingers through his brown hair, Tom moaned softly and arched up from the wall, their chests pressed tight.

“Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are?” the man breathed, kissing down Tom’s chest through his T-shirt. He jumped back up and locked their mouths together as Tom gasped _no_ , wrapping his arms around the man’s waist, heat soaking through their clothes.

“Wh—what’s your name?” Tom stammered, tilting his neck, the man’s mouth latched behind his ear.

“Jonathan. You?”

“Tom.”

“Nice to meet you, Tom,” Jonathan whispered as he rolled his erection over Tom’s crotch.

Tom laughed and held still for more kisses, both rutting against each other. When Jonathan flipped him to face the wall, Tom’s heart jumped into his throat. The tile was cold against his cheek. In its reflection, he could see the open bowl of the toilet.

The clink of a belt buckle and zipper chain sounded behind him, and he angled his head back, trying to see.

“Do you have a c-condom?”

Jonathan chuckled. “You say that funny.”

Face burning, Tom kept quiet, hearing as Jonathan moved around behind him. A crinkle of plastic drew his eye. Jonathan waved a condom packet and tore it open. Tom half turned and watched as he slipped it over his penis. Not astoundingly large, but a penis nevertheless. Jonathan pressed him to the wall again and Tom’s breath hitched, his cock throbbing in his trousers. Reaching around him, Jonathan undid Tom’s fly and pushed down his boxers. Cold air struck Tom’s bottom, and Jonathan moaned, stroking one cheek.

“Pretty boy, look at you.”

He mouthed at Tom’s neck as he fingered over his hole. Tom stiffened and whined quietly, Jonathan’s hand snaking up to grip his jaw.

And then he was squeezing in and Tom tensed, teeth gritted against the pain. Holding his jaw and hip, Jonathan groaned and pulled back, voice angled low as he looked down between them.

"You are fucking _tight_."

Tom whimpered when he pushed in again, trying to will his muscles to relax. Jonathan pulled his hips back so that Tom was more bent horizontal.

"You're okay. You're alright," Jonathan murmured. "Don't worry. You're not bleeding."

" _What?_ "

"I said you're not bleeding. Come here, baby, you're gorgeous." He leaned forward and lifted Tom's face, smashing his lips against Tom's mouth. They moved frantically, Jonathan sinking in a little more each time. Tears sprang to Tom's eyes, the pain excruciating. But he wanted this. He did. It wasn't exactly how he pictured it—with a stranger in the bathroom of a bus depot. But he was running on fumes at that point, spurred on by his mother's unconcealed disapproval of him and who he had always known he was. Anger and determination sparking inside his chest, Tom set his jaw and reached back for Jonathan, who pressed their cheeks together, huffing with every thrust.

Tom's erection had flagged, but his sudden resolve not to let anything ruin this for him, he started to fill again, absorbing as many details as he could: Jonathan's weight, his heat, his scent. And when Jonathan took his cock in hand, tugging at it with his dry palm, Tom keened, his cries bouncing around the sterile restroom walls, anyone able to walk in at any moment. The thought terrified him, hoping no one would. The _embarrassment_ —.

In an absurd bit of irony, he and Jonathan came together, two strangers who knew nothing of the other, finding release at the same time. Tom spilled over the wall, Jonathan into the condom. Tom's orgasm was slightly muted from fear of discovery and screaming pain in his backside, but he felt a coil of tension ease inside him, moaning as Jonathan thrust once more.

They stood there, panting, Tom's hands splayed on the wall. When Jonathan pulled out, he hissed at the stab of hurt along his spine. Jonathan made quick work of the condom, flushing it down the toilet and then tucking himself in again. Tom, still slightly dazed, stayed put by the wall, blinking dazedly as he dragged his boxers and trousers up to his waist.

"You're a babe," Jonathan said, pecking him on the cheek. Tom's eyes flitted to him, mouth hanging open a bit. "I'll see you around, yeah?"

With a smile and a wink, Jonathan left the stall. He washed his hands briefly and then was gone, the restroom door swinging open and closed.

Tom stood there for a minute, hand on the wall for balance, trying to fight the sour taste of knowing he had just been used. Or maybe that was just how people in America said hello.

"No time for jokes now, Thomas," he whispered, and then winced as he took his first step. Dropping his pants again, he bent over and felt around his entrance, drawing back fingers that were dotted with pink.

So he had bled. A little. Cursing, he cleaned himself up and washed his hands, grabbing his bag last. Adjusting his beanie and zipping up his jacket, he took a deep breath at the door and told himself not to limp.

He still did, though, slightly, face burning as he walked through the terminal, feeling as if everyone was staring at him, knowing what he'd just done in that stall. He was almost at the exit when he glanced up and saw Everett, the man who drove him everywhere back in England. He was turned away and looking up the street, cell phone pressed to his ear, barking at someone on the other end.

Tom's blood ran cold and he stuttered to a stop, heart dropping to his stomach.

It couldn't be. It just couldn't. How did they know he was coming to Michigan? He only just arrived! But his mother would be quick, he knew that. She must have had someone watching him.

Frozen in the middle of the terminal, Tom kept his sight glued on Everett, but when the man turned around, he realized it wasn't Everett at all, only someone that looked uncannily like him. Exhaling, Tom clutched his stomach, feeling faint. He suddenly wanted nothing to do with Detroit, this city that was his stopping point, this city where his mother might find him if she dug deep enough.

Turning on his heel, he limped to the ticket counter and waited in line.

"What's the first bus leaving here?"

The man clacked at his keyboard. "Five minutes. Headed to Toronto."

Canada? Tom bit his lip, never having anticipated leaving the country he had originally meant to be his new home. But it was too risky to head deeper into Michigan. Maybe Canada would be his answer.

"I'll take it," he said, paying in cash.

Limping up the bus stairs a few minutes later, Tom sat toward the back, sinking down into his seat with a pained grimace. He hoped he wasn’t too badly hurt.

He didn't know how long it would take to get to Toronto, and he didn't care. He was moving again, and that's all that mattered.

As they pulled out of the depot, Tom pressed his forehead to the window, cold against his face. A slow drizzle had started, and he tucked his hands into his pockets, promising himself that, wherever he ended up, he would never have sex with another stranger again.

******

 

The woods were quietest at dusk. There were the usual calls of birds and wandering moose in the hour before dawn, the world waiting to awaken, but dusk was when things went preternaturally still, when small animals with fluttering hearts stole away in the hollows of trees and tightly packed nests, when only the snow fell at a steady pace, piled along the base of the giant evergreen spruces and towering firs, mounding up against the walls of his cabin. Hardly anything moved, not until the full of dark fell and the tree trunks were shrouded in a veil of mist, the tops so tall they were lost in the snow clouds that always hovered, always.

Chris liked to sit out on his porch most evenings, smoking his pipe and whittling neglected pieces of firewood into tiny figures of speckled fawn, fat-chested robins, or long-maned wild horses, mid-prance and singing. He would leave them on the wooden rail and when next he walked by, they would be gone. He would wonder but never explore it, trusting that they were cared for wherever they had been taken.

Some nights, swaying quietly on his rocking chair, a blanket tossed over his shoulders, he would see them. Movement in the deeper shadows of the woods, something lurking low to the ground, moving among the trees, not like any animal he’d ever seen, more like a mist or liquid, flecked with motes of light that reminded him of what his mother called ‘the fairies’. He squinted where he sat, head resting back, not in any kind of hurry to solve what he always considered an enchantment of these woods, but he knew it was there, and he knew that it knew he watched them.

The sun was a glowing orb smothered by low-hanging clouds that afternoon. By evening, the sunset would be but a weak glimmer over the tree line, nearly gone, only a stilted sort of light lingering over the snow. He peered up at the sky, at the swirl of the cutting winds, at the crack of a branch as a long-beaked falcon landed atop the tallest pine, and he suddenly knew.

Dusting off his recent creation, a fairy girl standing under the canopied shade of a giant sunflower, Chris left his knife and carving on the railing and went inside for his truck keys. The drive to town was several miles of rough and patchy forest road, his truck maneuvering through shaded copses and around bends only he knew about. Blue Bear Inn was closest bit of civilization to Chris’s cabin, a short distance off the main road, but still tricky to find if one didn’t know their way around these woods. Chris’s efforts to conceal the ins and outs of the paths to his cabin proved effective, even though the inn saw its fair share of springtime guests, but so far he hadn’t seen a straggler around his land for months.

The inn was small, but scenic, often a place for tourists to stop in on their journey from out of the valley, but there weren’t many tourists this deep into the Yukon, much less this time of year. Chris didn’t mind the inn so much, as it tended to be a quiet and unobtrusive establishment despite its proximity to his land. He was just grateful it wasn’t an RV park, with campers and trailers of families and screaming children and littered garbage. This late in the season, there weren’t many guests at the inn, but Chris was always careful and vigilant, nonetheless.

There had been snow for over a month now, but nothing that ever stuck. Half way into November Chris knew there would be more to come. The tires of his truck were chained, a mesh tarp rolled back from the bed to cover any recent kills. But he hadn’t been hunting in a few weeks. He would need to go again soon before winter fully set in. The climb down the mountain was slow, Chris easing the truck over the ruts and crags of the gutted road. Once at the bottom, he turned the truck toward town, a small little place with one gas station and one grocery store that doubled as a hardware store, one dim and shabby cinema that played outdated movies, and a small chapel, whose tall spire guided the townsfolk. Built over a long valley at the base of the mountain, the town was dotted with private residences, gridded like a jigsaw puzzle. Over to the east rose the range of mountains that bordered the valley like an amphitheater, Chris’s mountain matching it on the opposite side, both crowding in on the town, creating a makeshift funnel for cold winds and snow flurries to bully over the buildings and streets.

It was better to live on the mountain, where the trees would protect from all manner of harm, nuzzling you to its breast, guarding you.

Chris pulled up to the grocery store, cutting the engine and sitting in the muggy quiet of the cab. He eyed the entrance, picking at his thumbnail. A mother and two children walked through the rattling automatic doors, blurry with grime, just as a man walked out, fishing for his keys in his front pocket. Normal, everyone normal. He could be normal too. He could. Chris looked down at the steering wheel, at his fingers splayed there, and took a deep and steadying breath.

Getting out, he studied the street, a line of cars by the liquor store, more people hurrying through the cold. He passed through the automatic doors, heard the chime announcing his arrival, saw several pairs of eyes turn his way. He skirted his gaze away, fist clenching.

The cart made a squeaky wheeling sound as he pushed it through the aisles, collecting things off the shelf as he saw need of them: kerosene oil, batteries, spare lamps, extra blankets and wool socks, matches and nails and three steel buckets, as well as water purifying tablets. He put in frozen chicken and dried meats and fruits, three ten-pound bags of potatoes, baskets of carrots and squash and apples. Milk and flour and sugar and salt. Ten dozen eggs.

Wheeling up to the register, he waited in line behind the mother with the two children, who kept peeking around her legs at him. The little boy had his thumb in his mouth, tugging on his sister’s jacket, pointing at Chris.

Chris took another deep breath.

When it was his turn, he brushed aside an old Polaroid camera forgotten on the counter, and set all his items in its place. The teenager who ran the register looked up at him with his mouth hanging open.

“Hello,” Chris said stiffly, and a little too loudly.

The boy flinched. “It’s you.”

Chris paused, eyes narrowing.

The boy’s cheeks flamed and he looked down at the stuff piling up before him. “What are you prepping for, man? The apocalypse?”

Chris stared at him and said nothing. The cashier gulped and jumped off his stool, quickly scanning his things.

"Seriously, man,” the kid whispered after another minute. “What do you need all this stuff for?”

Flipping his wallet open, Chris took out a bunch of bills. “Storm’s comin’,” he said.

The kid laughed. “A storm? Doppler says something might be brewing, but it’ll be heading southeast of here. Not our problem. Probably a dud, anyway.”

Chris grunted and started loading his cart with his bagged items. He paid the boy and left, hunched over against the cold, feeling the boy’s eyes on his back. He stacked his groceries in the truck’s bed, and pulled the mesh tarp over them. It was as he was securing the straps that he heard the first whispers. His skin prickled as he became aware of people stopping by the front of the store, their stares like a scratch of flame on the back of his neck, heating him with something like humiliation.

"There he is.”

"I haven’t seen him in months.”

"Billy, come here! Don’t get too close.”

"He seems bigger, don’t he?”

"And why wouldn’t he be? Up on that mountain, changing skins, fuckin’the moose.”

“Shh! He’ll hear you.”

Face red, Chris pulled the last strap tight and turned to the driver door, the dawdlers scattering like roaches. He had considered paying Carla a visit before returning home, knowing she was also ostracized enough to welcome someone as unwanted as him into her arms, but finally decided against it, wanting to be out of town as fast as possible. He started his truck with a mighty rumble, and pulled out of the space, heading back to the road that led up the mountain where his log cabin and the trees waited for him.

**

“Horribly distant, ain’t he?”

“Wouldn’t you be, after all that mess with his family?”

“A tragedy.”

“Tragedy or not, that man’s always been strange. Wild, even. Probably bathes in Emerald Lake. Those waters are fuckin’freezin’!”

“Been an odd one ever since he was a boy, running through those woods like a deer.”

“I’ve seen him touching one.”

“One what?”

“Well, a deer! Plain as day, stroking its nose like they knew each other.”

“You’re full of horse shit.”

“I am not!”

“Watch your language, I have Sarah here!”

“Stephen’s always said that he overheard him talking to Carla, you know, the whore—.”

“Language!”

“—who lives on Briar Ridge? Said he heard him tell her he don’t _remember_ what happened that night up in the mountain.”

“Why would he stay up there after the fire?”

“More importantly, how the hell do you forget something like that?!”

“He rebuilt the place on his own. Was only fourteen when they died.”

“Have you seen it?”

“A friend of mine did. A nice place. All logs.”

“Your friend ain’t never been there! No one has.”

The group whispered as the truck puttered up the road, eyes narrowed on the broad shadow of its driver. They watched it head around the bend and disappear into the forest, a collective sigh of relief moving through them.

Tom found them clustered around the entrance of the store, unable to catch a word of their hushed conversation, but he approached them with a curious smile.

“What are you all looking at?”

They all jumped and turned to him. He lifted his brows high, waiting. Grumbling, most of them went on their way, leaving Tom standing alone on the rubber mat before the grocery store entrance. Figuring now was a good a time as any to search for some jerky, he went inside.

"Hiya,” the boy at the register said, barely glancing up from his motorcycle magazine.

"Hello!” Tom said, blinking around at the brightly lit room, aisle upon aisle of nearly anything someone could need stretching into the depths of the store. “Goodness, this place seems smaller from the outside!”

“You’re not from around here,” the boy said, lowering his magazine an inch.

Tom fiddled with his bag strap. “No. Actually, I’m on holiday from the UK. Westminster, to be exact.” He smiled wide at the boy, who stared blankly at him.

“Where’s that?”

Tom shifted. “Uh. England.”

“Cool. What are you doing in Canada? Wait, don’t you guys own us or something?”

Tom scrunched his nose, shifting his eyes away. “Erm…”

"Sorry. My mom says I have problems focusing and I always interrupt people. So please, finish what you were saying.” He looked pointedly at Tom, who couldn’t help but laugh a little. The boy’s name tag read ‘William’. He had a crisscrossing of thick veins webbing into his thin forearms, and Tom looked away, clearing his throat.

"Well, William, technically I don’t think we own you, but I’d have to look it up to be positive. But anyway, I turned twenty earlier this year, and an aunt on my mother’s side left me some money when I turned eighteen and I only just figured out what to do with it. I want to travel the world. Visit one country every year of my life.” He hoped the lie sounded as believable as it did in his head.

"And you picked…Canada?”

Tom hitched his bag higher on his shoulders. “Yes, well. I mean, it’s a beautiful country, full of the world’s nicest people from what I hear. Although, just between you and I, the ones just outside were a tad frigid.”

“Oh,” William said, rolling his eyes and flipping a page. “That’s only because Wildebeest was just here.”

Tom blinked. “Wildebeest?”

“Yeah, the guy who lives up the mountain. Total spook, man. Probably half-animal by now. Living alone, doesn’t come down for months at a time. Complete isolation. He has a cabin up there and people say he hangs animal carcasses from hooks in the trees to warn people away. That he mates with the moose and turns into, I don’t know, a bear or something.”

Tom scoffed lightly. “A bear? Really? You all don’t believe in stuff like that, right?”

William shrugged. “My friends and I used to play by the ponds that gathered at the base of the mountains after the summer rains. Big quagmires that spawned all sorts of stuff, like tadpoles and squishy gunk that stuck to the rocks. We used to dare each other to go ten trees into the forest. The furthest I ever got to was four. It’s a weird place, is all I’m saying. Has an electric charge to the air, or something, like…you’re being watched. And he _lives_ up there.” He shuddered. “But it’s whatever. I don’t go up there, so I don’t care. But he was just here, and it has the people all riled up.”

“What was he doing here?”

“Buying up all kinds of survival shit. Like blankets and oil and matches and stuff.”

Tom shifted on his feet, eyes on the sky outside the windows. “Is there a storm coming?”

“Doppler says probably not, but if it does it should move away from us. The guy’s a loony.”

Tom brought out the map he’d nabbed from the bus just before disembarking, and smoothed it down on the counter. “Can you tell me how far away Blue Bear Inn is? I was on the bus just now, and someone told me it’s a nice place to stay.  I’m on my way to Quebec, see.”

William pointed out where they were on the map, and trailed his finger down an imaginary line into a darkly shaded area.

“Those are all trees?” Tom asked, squinting. “Seems a bit far.”

“Yeah. It’s smack in the middle of that wood. There are signs. You can’t miss it. I’ve seen pictures of it, and it’s cute or whatever. There’s a little creek and these hedges of roses. I mean, they’re dead right now, but in the spring, it’s like a color palette threw up all over the place.” Tom laughed. “Anyway, it should take you maybe forty minutes to get there?”

Tom’s legs were feeling cramped from being on that bus for so long, even if his bottom was still sore from his encounter with Jonathan. A walk might do him good. Feeling better about the distance and looking forward to being in a warm bed by nightfall, he thanked William after buying a small bag of jerky.

“Wow! I haven’t seen one of those in ages!”

He pointed to an older model camera sitting on one end of the counter, the kind that spit out the developed picture from a slit in the front.

“Oh, yeah,” William said, smiling. He picked it up. “Wanna send one to your mom when you reach Quebec?”

“Sure!” Tom smiled as William raised the camera. The flash was bright, catching his small, excited smile, the window into the parking lot spread out behind him. William took the picture and shook it, even though Tom thought he probably shouldn’t have done that. When he handed it to him, though, Tom saw his image begin to appear, the brown of his jacket, black mesh lining, gray shirt. He smiled and tucked the picture into his front pocket.

“Thank you. Mum will love it when she receives it in the post with my letter.”The letter I never intend to send, he thought with a small twinge of regret. But he shook it off and collected his bag, nodding at William.

“It’s snowing,” he remarked as he walked out.

“Yeah, we get flurries like this all the time. It’s nothing,” William called from behind the register.

Tom checked his watch. Just after five o’clock. If he started walking now, he would be at the inn within the hour. Pulling on his burgundy beanie, he started off down the side walk, taking a piece of jerky from its pouch and biting a chunk between his teeth. He followed the road as it twisted at the bend and curved uphill, swallowed up by the thickets of trees, the wide and shadowed mountaintop looming down over him.

**

Chris stood at his kitchen window, a mug of hot coffee warming his palms.

He could still hear the people whispering about him, their words floating around in his head. He had a feeling they’d always disliked him and his family, cursing them for being isolated on the mountain, strange and apart and never really part of the community. But he also thought that his short fling with Brandon, the butcher’s son, had something to do with it too. Brandon used to make the meat deliveries to the inn, and had run into Chris one day on the patched dirt road. What had started out as a hurried and desperate coupling, had turned into a complete mess, Brandon disgusted with some of the things Chris liked to say between the sheets. Brandon had always been hesitant about his feelings for Chris, reserved in his affection, even if he gave it willingly once they were both hot and bothered enough. But his eyes had nearly popped out of his head at Chris’s little murmurings about impregnation and planting his seed to take root inside Brandon.

He’d stormed out all those months ago, red faced with anger, and probably humiliation. Chris wouldn’t exactly put it past him to start up the filthy rumors about Chris fornicating with animals and hanging carcasses from the trees as warnings.

He shook his head and sipped more of his coffee, eyes narrowed out the window.

The flurries were coming down a little faster now as the sun edged the tree line in its descent to the earth. He should check his traps before the worst of it hit. Supplies and groceries packed away, he rinsed his mug and took his shotgun from the kitchen table. He smothered the small flames in the fireplace, wishing he could just leave it crackling by itself so that the house would be warm when he returned. But he knew better. It wasn’t worth the risk.

Boots crunching through the yard, he went to the side of the cabin where he kept the bobsled under a blue awning he'd constructed three winters ago. Securing the harness around his waist, he pulled at the sled and set out to the edge of the trees, trudging through the fresh snow, soft like powder. It would be hard as concrete and sharp as knives in only a few hours' time.

**

None of it made any sense. Turning in a circle for what felt like the hundredth time, he trailed a finger down the same line on the map that William had, glancing up, completely confused.

Tom was coming to the dreadful conclusion that he might actually be lost.

According to the map, he should have taken the first right after going up the main road for about a mile. But he'd only passed what could have easily been mistaken for a small ditch, and thinking that couldn't possibly be what the map indicated was the path, he'd continued on, intent on finding the right turn. The further he went, the harder the snow began to fall, the faster the trees started to blur together. All hopes of finding some mysterious path were snuffed out like a doused flame. Maybe things had shifted about over the last few months? Or maybe the map he’d stolen was outdated. Either way he figured it was too late to turn back now, having gone what felt like miles up the mountain. Surrounded by trees whose tops were lost in the blinding sky, he pushed through the undergrowth, needles and sharp branches scratching at his face, lessened only by the somewhat softer spindles of the pines.

Night was descending at an alarming pace, dark enough now that he could see nothing but black shapes in the brighter snow, too indistinct to know them by anything other than the trees they were. Still, his fright was beginning to manifest itself in shadows darting just out of sight, branches swaying above his head, the soft rustle of something moving about. He kept expecting for a great giant bear to pop out at him from behind every single tree he passed, his shallow breaths turning into gasps of terror. And now drifts of snow began spinning down, bunching in the wrinkled hollows of his jacket and scarf, spiking on his lashes so that his eyes burned when he wiped at them.

He tied his scarf over his mouth, eyes running from the cold. Over three hours had gone by and he still hadn't come upon the inn. But he pressed forward, figuring he would turn a corner any minute and suddenly it would be there. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he very well might perish that night, body hidden for months until the snowmelt the next spring. Unnervingly, he thought of Jack Torrance from the movie _The Shining_ , whose insanity had led to his demise, frozen in the maze with his axe and look of terrifying defiance. Shivering and trying to control his mounting anxiety, Tom staggered on.

Jerky and water gone, his stomach rumbled with hunger. The compass on his watch was spinning and lurching to sudden stops, completely useless to him. Teeth chattering, he squinted into the darkness, the skin of his cheeks and nose burning, his toes numb in his wet shoes. He could hardly feel the tips of his fingers, no less his still sore bottom.

Stepping badly, he tripped over a twisted root and sprawled against a tree, cutting his hand and cheek on the jagged bark. He hissed and jolted away, even though the cuts hardly stung, so numb was his skin. But he started to bleed, and profusely. Staring down at his palm filling with blood, he felt the same warmth on his cheek, dripping down to soak into his scarf. Cursing quietly, he held his palm to his thigh, hoping to staunch the blood flow. But his heart was beating so hard, fear and anxiety ringing loudly in his ears, the outer layer of his body freezing, all of his warmth traveling to his core.

He was thirsty, so thirsty, lips chapped, teeth knocking together so hard his jaw became a throbbing hinge of soreness. A jab of pain shot down his neck and his terror amplified, a crest of emotion bursting in his chest. He sobbed out loud, unable to physically cry, tear ducts most likely frozen.

The world was a storm of wind and white powder, and he wondered vaguely if this is what it would feel like to be stuck in a snow globe, shaken and distressed and at the whims of the person holding you in their palms.

Quite suddenly, something snapped behind him and Tom spun around, crying out in alarm. Only tree trunks there, snow blowing hard in the wind, nothing seen. Nothing there. Braced against a tree, he peered, eyes straining, tufts of his hair fluttering under the beanie he wore. And there, around the edge of one of the farthest trunks, he thought he saw a shadow slink low to the ground.

Eyes widening, a shriek lodged in his throat, he hurried backward, heart rate tripling. He must have imagined it, or else the thing wouldn't have had tiny bursts of light surrounding it, wouldn’t have paused in its tracks, no doubt spotting him in all his panic.

Stumbling, he turned and fled, urging his legs to move faster through the thickening snow but he was frozen, limbs stiff and unsteady on the uneven ground. Glancing back to see if he was being followed, he took another huge step and felt his equilibrium tip forward as his foot sank deep into the snow.

Something metallic and grinding snapped loudly in the howling winds, and Tom screamed, collapsing to the ground in a shaken heap. His foot felt on fire, three long spikes of pain lancing from ankle to knee. It felt as if the jaws of some great beast had torn free of the very earth and bitten into his flesh, sinking its teeth deep into his foot through boot and sopping sock.

Scrambling up, choked sobs echoing in the hollow glade found himself in, Tom kept his leg straight, trying not to jar his foot or risk whatever it was sinking further in. Sobbing, he bent his leg at the knee and scooted closer, his trousers wet and freezing almost instantly. He dug and scooped away the snow bunched around his leg until his foot appeared.

His heart sank at the sight.

His foot was caught in the steel jaws of some kind of animal trap locked right beneath his ankle, two iron teeth embedded in the soft meat of his instep, one tooth dug in at the top.

“Oh god,” he croaked, his plea carried away in the winds, lost even to his own ears. “Oh god! Please. Help. Someone please help!”

Stammering, Tom buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking as he wept. Blood stuck to his face, dried already, the sharp winds killing everything it touched. It would kill him too.

Shivering, he sat and peered around him, deathly afraid of whatever it was that had been lurking about. But there was no movement in the depth of the forest, nothing but the wind.

He focused back on his throbbing foot. The trap had a chain only about two feet in length attached to a thick metal spike dug into the frozen earth. He wouldn’t be able to crawl very far. Either he pried open the steel jaws on his own or he had to break that chain. Fingers bent stiff from the cold, Tom looked around helplessly. He wiped at his eyes again and gritted his teeth, tossing himself to the left, pain shooting up his leg. Bunching up his sleeves so that they covered his hands, he gripped the material and began to dig around in the snow. At the base of the closest tree he found a rock a little bigger than his entire hand. It would have to do.

Slamming it down on the chain, he screamed with every blow, voice ragged and hoarse. Again and again, he brought the rock down, the loud clang of the metal echoing in the glade. Arms vibrating, he slammed the rock down once more and the chain sprang free, rusted and weakened by the weather. He didn’t even have the energy to whoop his joy. He crawled away, trap still attached to his foot, but he was free. And he would make it back down to the mountain for help. He could do it, he had to. Limping on his good leg he pushed through the trees, bleeding and freezing, his right leg an excruciating burn with every step. He collapsed more than once, but he pushed to his feet, determined not to die.

Blinded by wind and snow, he hobbled through the forest, moving purely on his instinct to survive. He didn’t realize there were no more trees to cling to until he fell through open air and landed on firm ground. Blinking around, he saw he was in a yard of sorts, cleared of all vegetation, a huge cabin tucked against the far tree line. He stared up at the place, wondering if it was real, if he was hallucinating, if he’d really gone off the deep end into insanity. Pointed roof blanketed by snow, the cabin stood tall and grand, made entirely of sturdy logs. It had a wide front porch, with three rickety steps that led to the sturdy front door. The windows were dark, but Tom thought he saw a wisp of smoke curling from the brick chimney poking up into the sky.

Desperate and feeling near death, Tom dragged himself through the yard, his elbows smarting through his jacket. He reached the steps and crawled up, trousers torn at the knees, bleeding from more cuts. The door, miraculously, was unlocked, and if he’d been in a better frame of mind he would have stopped to consider the danger of seeking refuge in a strange house in the middle of nowhere. Something nagged at the back of his mind, a tiny red flag of warning, but a blizzard was raging around him and he needed to get inside or submit to a likely death from exposure.

He kicked the door closed with his uninjured foot and lay on his back, the silence of the place unnerving, the howls of the wind muted by the thick wood and windows of the place. Breaths harsh, his entire body shook, teeth chattering violently, and it wasn’t until a huge gust of wind pressed loudly against the door did he panic into movement again, sobbing as he heaved himself across the wooden floor, foot weighed down by the trap, damp clothes dragging at his tired limbs, eyes set on the fireplace.

The ashes were still warm, as were the bricks bracketing the hearth. He pressed his face to one and moaned, his entire body shuddering. Trying to uncurl his stiff fingers, he reached his hands out to lay them on the warm bricks, too. It seemed he had two hearts in his body, one a fluttering beat in his chest, the other a throbbing ache in his foot.

He might have slept. He might have closed his eyes and passed out from exhaustion and pain, but he startled awake after what seemed like only a moment when he heard the door creak open behind him. A soft light flowed into the room, and he gasped, eyes searing in agony. 

Flopping onto his back, he tilted his head until he could see the doorway, an upside down rectangle of black sky with roiling clouds, curtains of snow blowing by the front porch. Coming through the door was a wide and looming shadow, oil lamp aloft, the glint of a long steel gun barrel pointed straight at him.

Head spinning, Tom whined low in his throat and felt his eyes roll up, his last thought that at least the storm hadn’t killed him, even if this person whose home he’d invaded very well might.

**

The storm hit sooner than Chris had anticipated, and he hurried to pull the heavy sled behind him into his yard, laden with a dozen rabbits and a fully-grown doe. The rabbits he would take inside to skin and season before storing them in the freezer. Usually he would keep the doe outside to bleed out and then cut into sections to store in the shed behind the cabin. But the storm was gathering strength and he needed to get inside.

And then he saw the blood trail, already disappearing in the rough winds. He peered at the cabin, saw more stains on the stairs, the door shut tight, windows dark. He pulled the sled to the side of the house and took his shotgun from under the tarp. Cocking the barrel, he crept up the stairs, knowing just where to step so that they wouldn’t creak. Not that anything would be heard above the screaming winds. Crouching by the front window, he peered inside but saw nothing, only darkness. Thinking to risk some light, he lit the oil lamp he always left on the porch and held it in his left hand, his right pointing the shotgun forward. Whatever was inside was hurt and would stand no chance against Chris if it tried to escape. Or fight its way free.

The door creaked as he opened it. His skin tightened in anticipation, remembering the townspeople whispering about him, wondering if one of them had gathered enough courage to finally face him.

Lamp high, he stepped in, finger hovering over the trigger. Movement by the fireplace drew his eyes, and he shifted his stance, approaching slowly. The lamp light flickered over the hearth, where Chris was surprised to see a boy laying. Lashes fluttering over hooded and glazed eyes, the boy made a small noise and then went limp, breath rushing out in a stuttered sigh.

Setting the lamp on the table, Chris kept the barrel up, taking a cursory glance around the rest of the living room. Sensing no other threat, he dropped to his knees beside the boy. The delicate skin around his lips and eyes was blue, lashes looking pale white against his cheeks. Pressing an ear to his thin chest, Chris detected a heartbeat, faint and stuttering. Cursing under his breath, his hands hovered over the boy’s shoes, right foot caught in one of those inhumane animal traps, big steel contraptions with spiked teeth left over by vagrant hunters during the spring. Chris tried to dismantle as many as he came across, but he had obviously missed one.

Knees torn, bleeding from his hands and a cut on his cheek, the boy was a frozen mess. Moving fast, Chris shut the door and started a quick fire, blowing to help it burn higher. He hurried to the closet in the hall and grabbed three towels, placing them on a line above the fire to warm. And then he set water to heat by hanging three buckets from the grate.

He returned his focus to the trap. It was an older model, rusted at the hinges from its time out in the elements. Brittle, as evidenced by the chain dangling from it. He eyed the boy’s face, pale in the firelight, wondering at the determination it must have taken to break it from the spike in the ground. His fingers were shredded with cuts and bruises.

Chris rubbed a hand down his face and sighed. It was too dangerous to take him to the health clinic in town. The roads would be slippery and piled with snow by now. His whole reason for getting supplies early was so that he wouldn’t have to travel back down the mountain for weeks, if he was lucky. But now this boy was nearly dead in his home and Chris didn’t want to consider the repercussions of bringing a bloodied, injured, half-dead stranger into the clinic in the middle of a blizzard.

He could only do his best to care for him on his own. There was a trigger on these kinds of traps that perhaps the boy hadn’t known to look for. Set between the bottom two teeth, he pulled hard at the lever, corroded so badly it took him more than one try. The hinge finally sprang free, teeth still embedded in his foot.

Carefully, Chris eased the teeth from the torn shoe, pausing when he saw the boy’s hand twitch. Once removed, he dropped it to the side and bent over the shoe, unlacing it and pulling it off, leaving only a plain cotton sock—in this weather, kid?—soaked with blood and freezing water. Inching it off, he could finally see the extent of the trap’s damage, one deep hole at the top of his foot, and two shallower ones at the bottom. It was a bad flesh wound, deep and extremely painful, but the bones seemed still intact. Lucky boy. Blood started flowing more freely from the punctures, and he grabbed one of the towels to staunch it before removing the other shoe and sock.

He paused.

Peering closer, he saw the skin around both sets of toes was deep red, nearing purple. Rising quickly, he squatted by the boy’s head and took his face in hand, seeing the same evidence of frost burn on his cheeks and straight nose.

“Shit.”

Hurrying with the hot towels, he draped one over his bare feet and another over his face and neck. Moving methodically, he poured the nearly boiling water into the wooden tub in the bathroom, and returned to refill the buckets from the tap in the sink and set them over the fire again. He did this three more times, the water heating quickly, Chris keeping an eye on the boy’s chest to make sure he was still breathing. Once the bath was ready, Chris used his knife to cut the clothes from the boy’s body, seeing for the first time how thin he was.

No wonder he almost froze, Chris thought. Hasn’t got an ounce of fat on him.

Once all his clothes were cut away, he hesitated, letting his eyes drift down the boy’s long frame, lean muscle in his arms and legs, his torso tapered and tight, hips and thighs slim but strong in the flickering firelight. He stared at the boy’s crotch, at the heavy balls, the flaccid penis curved over a patch of soft pubic hair, and Chris swallowed, his own cock twitching in interest. How long had it been since he’d seen another body, beside his own, naked and vulnerable? Chris couldn’t rightly recall. Even his visits to Carla usually took place in the dark, two bodies rutting desperately toward a hasty finish, no tender affection to be had.

Brushing aside the twinge of desire licking at his gut, Chris lifted the boy in his arms and carried him to the bathroom. He was a comforting weight in his arms, Chris’s heart skipping at the feel of another body after being deprived of human contact for so long. Stopping beside the tub, he squeezed the boy to his chest, rubbing his bearded cheek against the boy’s tender forehead, his soft blond curls tickling Chris. He wanted to memorize the feel of this person, a real person he could touch, and remember it when he would wake and no doubt flinch away from him. 

Finally stooping, he lowered the boy to the water, letting him sink in up to his chin, submerged entirely. The boy’s brows furrowed and he mumbled quietly but Chris couldn’t make it out, the wind roaring outside, whistling in through a crack somewhere. There was a battery-operated space heater in the cabinet under the sink. He turned it on and aimed it at the tub, knowing the boy needed all the heat he could get.

In the moist and foggy bathroom, he sat on a stool by the tub, brushing back the boy’s hair, staring at the fine bones of his face, the thin but soft lips, lashes long and trembling. Just under one ear was a small mark the shape of a bean, and Chris wondered if it was a hickey. Scooping water, Chris wet his hands and cupped the boy’s jaw, running both thumbs across the enflamed frost burn of his cheekbones, warming and keeping the blood flowing under his pale skin. And because he couldn’t help himself, he leaned forward and nuzzled at the boy’s temple, breathing in the scent of sweat and something mild but clean, like soap. Nose in his hair, Chris kept his face pressed there, a deep ache in his chest at the gift of touch again.

But then the boy stirred and Chris drew back, watching as those lips parted. He stared, riveted, as the boy gasped and arched his back weakly, awakening with a low moan. Blue eyes blinked open, blind still, flitting left and right, finally focusing on him.

They widened in fear and Chris let his hands drop.

“Who are you?” the boy cried, arms rising from the water to cling to the tub’s rim. Fat drops spilled to the floor, splashing on Chris’s jeans and boots.

He said nothing, only leaned back on the stool. The boy’s eyes were bright with fever, hands trembling, grimacing in pain.

“Take it easy,” Chris whispered, raising open palms, hoping to show the boy he meant no harm.

The boy cowered away, back pressed to the far edge of the tub, breathing hard. “Where am I? What is this place? Who are you!”

Chris sighed and reached for him, taking both wrists as the boy struggled to pull away. They pulled and pushed at each other until Chris finally tightened his grip, the boy's bones grinding together.

He winced. “Leave me! I’ll scream!”

Chris hauled him close, their faces an inch apart.

“You’re already screamin’. And there’s no one around for miles to hear you. Now quit your struggling and calm down. You’ll hurt yourself more.” He let him go and the boy fell back into the water, petrified and shaking.

And like a flower lilting in heavy rainfall, he visibly drooped, eyes rolling back, body sapped of all strength. Chris swallowed and turned around. Curled into a tight ball, shivering, he tracked Chris’s movements in the room, following as he rummaged in the cabinet for his first aid kit, moving his stool to the far end of the tub.

“Hold still,” Chris said quietly, reaching into the water and bringing the boy’s injured foot to rest on the edge. The boy tensed and half sat up, but Chris tossed him a glare and he sank back down again, eyes wary and tired.

Chris wiped at the wounds, laying a wide hand on the boy’s ankle to steady and hopefully comfort him when he jumped with a pained gasp. He spread ointment over the punctures, taking the chance to massage at his toes to encourage blood flow. They were still tinted blue, but seemed less so than before.

“Am I...naked?” the boy asked, voice awed and terribly confused, peering down into the water.

Chris took a deep breath in through his nose, finally opening his eyes to stare at him. “You were half frozen. And bleeding. With a damn trap on your foot. Yes, you’re naked. I had to strip you to get you in the bath before you died.”

They stared at each other, the boy's nostrils flaring. His eyes drifted to his foot, heel still cupped in one of Chris’s hands while the other pinched and needed at the arch and tender instep.

“You’ll keep your toes,” Chris murmured after a while, and the boy’s head snapped up.

“Were you going to chop them off?”

“If they had frostbite, yes. Lucky for you, you broke into my house quick enough to avoid that.”

The boy dropped his gaze, chastised enough to remain quiet. For only a short moment.

“I’m sorry about that. But I won’t apologize for trying to save my own life.”

Chris grunted and lifted the other foot up, massaging that one as well. The boy squirmed and whimpered through it, trying to tug his leg out of Chris’s grip.

“Quit that,” Chris muttered.

“Feels like needles,” he groaned, neck rolling against the edge of the tub.

Chris studied him. His cheeks were flushed, eyes still bright. And he seemed on the verge of passing out again.

“Stay awake,” Chris ordered in a low voice, and the boy shook his head faintly.

“…Can’t. I don’t…I—.”

The whites of his eyes showed as he fainted, sagging into the water, head ducking under the surface. Chris rushed forward and lifted him up, wiping the streaming water from his face as the boy dragged in a startled breath, roused into consciousness again. Cradling him to his chest, Chris kept the boy’s head tilted up as he sputtered and coughed wetly, one hand lifting shakily to grip his wrist.

“You’re in the middle of the Yukon,”Chris whispered, cupping his jaw. “What were you thinking?”

And the boy, half-conscious, said nothing, only gazed up at him through slow blinks, teeth chattering again, body shuddering despite the hot water. Chris could feel the vibrations soaking into his own chest, and felt a strange sort of kinship with the boy, to absorb so vulnerable a reaction.

“Christ,” Chris murmured, glancing around the room, the floor puddled with water, the blizzard wild and furious just outside, a boy shivering in his arms.

**

The world tilted as the man lifted him from the water.

Tom spasmed and reached to hold onto something, hands grappling at a strong set of shoulders. His mind was clouded, mirroring into his vision, which blurred and winked in and out, dizzying.

“What’s your name?” he heard, and Tom blinked, fuzzy shapes rising before him.

“T-T-Tom,” he stammered, wondering if he had spoken aloud, or only in his head.

“I’m Chris,” the man whispered, the name sounding stiff in the air, as if maybe he hadn’t said it in a while. As if he hadn't spoken in ages, voice deep and rough from disuse.

Swaying, he held his eyes closed, too exhausted to look around, to see what the man—Chris? Jonathan?—was doing. Still, he felt him close, felt his hands on Tom’s waist, steadying him, murmuring to hold still. Tom tried, he really did, but his legs felt like noodles from the cold, unable to put any weight down on his right foot.

Something warm and slightly rough dragged down his chest and he gasped, tightening his fingers on the man’s shoulders. He half expected a head of dark hair to appear before him, bending low to lick at his neck. But it was only a towel, he sensed. The man was drying him, and carefully, moving the cloth down both arms and across his back, down each leg, dabbing around the wound on his foot. Those hands. Those hands, calloused and scarred, felt good.

Shaking, Tom waited, lips vibrating. Finally another warm towel was wrapped around him and he felt himself soften beneath it, unable to stop from moaning quietly.

Under the man’s arm, Tom limped down the hall, eyes slit, catching only glimpses of the inside of the cabin. Tall ceilings of wood, everything wood, dark and no doubt less creepy in daylight. But the man— _Chris_ —had lit only one lamp in the bathroom, and apart from the fire in the living room, shadows crowded in and flickered from every corner.

Despite the man's unnerving eye contact and limited words, Tom felt himself drawn closer him, chills erupting over his skin with every shaken breath, feeling on the verge of some great precipice, on the other side of which waited certain death.

Gray wisps began to inch over his eyes and he had only a second before he felt his knees give, darkness shrouding his brain.

He floated and spun, the sky and earth slanting and reversing, stomach roiling, hands aching in their emptiness. There was heat, but not enough. He was cold, so very cold, and he shuddered at the force of it, great quakes that wracked his body, lying down now, somehow lying down. His head was swollen, feeling ten times too big, but he arched and he curled in, not okay, he was not okay. His mother would never know what became of him, and he would die on this mountain, buried by this man under the pines and the white sky.

This mountain and this sky, with this man, a man who meant something. What was it?

_Total spook_ _…_ _probably half-animal by now_ _…_ _living alone_ _…_ _complete isolation_ _…_ _has a cabin up there and people say he hangs animal carcasses from hooks in the trees...mates with the moose and turns into_ _…_

A what. Turns into a what.

Tom shivered and moaned, breath rattling in his chest.

Years passed, or only hours. He couldn’t tell, couldn’t pin down time in the bundle of soft coldness he felt cocooned in. His toes and teeth ached, fingers cramped and bent stiff, and he felt a presence near him. A gaze he gravitated toward, that he couldn’t help but seek out, even in his blindness, eyes unwilling to open, pasted shut.

 _Chris,_ he thought. He moaned and pressed his head back into a cloud.

He hoped to dream. He hoped to rid himself of this desperation, this fatigue, this sense of alienation from the world, the very world that had tried to claw him down into its frozen womb, to kill and keep.

He sank into numb sleep, chased there by biting winds and gnawing teeth and cold, slick restroom tile, and something softer, like a whisper.

**

The boy slept.

Half-conscious when Chris had laid him down gently on the bed, the boy dozed as Chris rooted around in the kitchen for his jar of herbs.

He selected a few and then tended to Tom’s foot, pressing the dampened herbs to his skin and wrapping it in a tight bandage. The wounds had started to bleed just after getting out of the tub, and Chris thought that was a good thing. Meant the blood was flowing, meant his body was warming up, if only a little bit at a time. The boy still looked terribly cold, blue tinting the edges of his lips and eyes still, the beds of his fingernails starkly purple. Chris adjusted the blankets around Tom, tucking them in, piling a few more on top.

Looking like a cocooned critter, Tom lay still, mouth slack, a frown on his brow.

The breaths rattling in and out of his chest worried Chris, and he touched the boy’s forehead, still hot with fever. His hand lingered, cupping the smooth cheek, tracing his thumb across the sensitive skin under his eye. His let his hand fall when the boy moaned and rolled his head away, body shuddering.

Lighting a tobacco pipe, Chris sat in the chair before the fire, eyes drifting to the open door of the bedroom every few minutes, Tom smothered under a bundle of blankets. When the rattling breaths paused for a long moment, he sat up fast, eyes narrowing in concern. But then Tom started breathing again and Chris relaxed into the seat, blowing out smoke through his nose.

The boy’s torn clothing was still bundled on the floor, and he stooped to pick it up. He rolled the jacket into a ball, but not before catching the top edge of something plastic in the front pocket. Chris pulled it out, surprised to see the boy’s eyes peering at him from a Polaroid picture. He was smiling at the camera, eyebrows hitched up, as if pleasantly surprised to be having his photograph taken. He looked sweet, all smooth and pale skin, with that mop of blond curls twisting every which way. How did one have such natural curls? The boy looked warm, cheeks ruddy with health and not fever, death not hovering over to snatch him up if Chris wasn’t careful.

He skimmed his thumb over the Polaroid, noting the shadow of trees in the background. Looked like the parking lot outside of grocery store. And then Chris remembered the Polaroid camera on the counter, remembered the cashier staring at him in muted shock, remembered the townsfolk whispering about him.

It seemed Tom had wandered into the store not long after Chris had left it, which meant he most likely got an earful from the cashier about all the scandalous and gory gossip surrounding Chris and his recent sighting in town. No wonder the boy had nearly popped out of his skin when he laid eyes on Chris, no doubt putting two and two together.

He thought again of the boy’s eyes, big and blue and wet with fear, and he sighed, dropping the Polaroid onto the side table. He started up a slow rock, staring into the fire and wondering why this boy was delivered to him, and if he would have rather been alone through it all.

**

Shrugging into a parka jacket lined with fleece, Chris readied himself to go back outside. Leather gloves, snow goggles, wool cap and a thick scarf, he knew it would only be for a short while, but it was always better to respect nature rather than tempt it to dangerous mischief.

With Tom slumbering in the bedroom, he pushed through the front door, the freezing winds and snow billowing inside almost immediately. He slammed it shut and hurried down the porch stairs, the world a raging whirlwind of white and black. The sled was blanketed with ice despite the awning, his kill an indistinct mound. It was only a testament to the strength of the storm that the dead doe hadn’t by now been dragged off by one of the larger predators that prowled the woods.

Slinging the string of rabbits around his waist, Chris took the doe, stiff as a board, and threw it over his shoulder. He rushed into the cabin through the back door, dumping the doe and rabbits on the scarred and stained worktable in the small room in the side hallway. It was where he cleaned all of his kills. Here he skinned and gutted the animals, butchering them into pieces to store and freeze. Baskets lined the floor beneath the window: potatoes and apples and small bags of dried dates and cherries, raisins and cranberries; yams and peppers, pecans and almonds. The freezer was in the opposite corner, half empty until this recent catch, which would fill it again, ensuring the bounty of his stores for the next few weeks.

In the morning he would make rabbit stew, tossing in some potatoes and carrots and onions. Just like his mother used to make for him as a boy. Once awake, Tom would benefit from something warm to eat. It made a warmth of his own spread low in his belly at the thought of another person to share a meal with, another person whom he might wake up to look in the eye, to be with, simply.

Removing his outer gear, Chris hooked his jacket and scarf on a peg on the wall, and left his boots to dry just within the back door. Tom was motionless when Chris checked on him, feeling his forehead, still hot, still feverish. He was breathing slowly, eyes rolling under his lashes, but he was alive. The bandage on his foot was stained with blood, and Chris would need to change it in the morning.

The deer and rabbits began to thaw after an hour, and he decided to skin them before the boy woke up. Leaving the deer for last, he bled the rabbits from the neck, then sliced into the fur along each of their tiny spines, slipping the outer skin away from the red meat of the muscle, like a silk glove pulled off a woman’s hand. Gutting them, he added their entrails to the blood in a bucket under the table, and cut off their feet and ears. He set aside two for stew in the morning, and stored the rest in the freezer. He repeated the motions with the deer, letting the blood flow from the neck, slicing along the spine, peeling away the skin that rasped roughly like sandpaper with every inch he removed.

When he carved into the soft meat of its belly, its innards poured out, thick and viscous. He rolled them over the edge of the table and into the bucket, reminding him of the way slops used to sound pouring into the pigs’troughs when his parents were alive. The pigs, along with everything else, had died in the fire.

It was as he danced his hand across the width of the deer’s flank to measure each section for chopping, that he heard the small cry. He cocked his head, catching amid the rushing wind the soft sounds of distress. Wiping his hands carelessly on a cloth, Chris hurried down the hall, wool socks padding lightly on the smooth wooden floor. In the bedroom, Tom lay on the bed, shivering so hard the blankets were strewn over the floor.

His eyes half open, shaky moans pressed through Tom’s clamped jaws, but Chris could tell he was unconscious, teeth clacking again, fingers trembling on his thin chest.

Chris knelt beside him and bracketed his head, realizing too late how bloodied they were still. Red stained the boy’s pale skin, but Chris was focused on bringing him round, or at least quieting all his trembling.

“Boy,” he whispered, patting his cheek gently. “Come on now. Wake up.”

Tom’s lashes fluttered, but he remained asleep.

Setting his jaw, Chris stood and started stripping out of his clothes. Plaid shirt, moist jeans, even his wool socks. Bringing up the blankets, he draped them over the boy again and then slid under to lie next to him. The boy’s head turned his way, already sensing Chris’s body heat. Tucking the blankets around them, Chris rolled Tom onto his side and gathered him in his arms, sticky blood staining the sheets and more of Tom’s skin. Nude bodies pressed tightly, Chris rubbed Tom’s back gently, pressed his mouth to his forehead, breathing evenly over his skin. The boy’s shakes immediately subsided, but didn’t disappear entirely, traveling through his body in minute spasms.

Gradually, the boy’s scent, never mind the feel of another body against his, began to overwhelm Chris, and he found his hand traveling down Tom’s spine, smoothing over the roundest, firmest bottom he had ever touched. He gave it a squeeze and then cupped his hand over a jutting hipbone. The kid was so thin, Chris felt extremely conscious of his own size and weight, not wanting to hurt him, but wanting to crush him still, and breathe him in and keep him.

Brandon had been more of Chris’s size, not as tall, but more solidly built than this wisp of a boy. Chris liked the light feel of him in his arms, the slim waist, the little pucker in his brow, frowning even in sleep.

He rolled Tom’s waist forward until their bellies were flush, and Chris groaned softly. He mouthed gently at Tom’s temple, finding that the taste of his skin was vastly different from Carla’s, or even Brandon’s, favoring it immediately, wanting and needing more. His fingers curved under the tender nape of his neck, holding him close, pushing his nose into his crown of curls, skipping over the bean-shaped bruise on his neck. His heart skipped when one of Tom’s arms slid over his ribs and tightened slightly, the feather-soft feel of his thin fingers twitching at his back.

Hugging him close, Chris lay awake and lent Tom his warmth, pushing a knee between Tom’s legs, settling in more comfortably. Their groins were pressed snugly, heated and furred, Chris's more so than Tom's, and he wondered vaguely if the boy groomed himself. Tom was quietly asleep again, breathing slowly at Chris’s throat, trembling only every few moments. Outside, the storm continued to whirl and buffet loudly against the house, enormous gusts that rattled the windows and made Chris draw Tom closer, Tom who whimpered and cuddled in on his own, leg rising up Chris’s thigh, sighing ever so quietly with something that sounded like contentment.

**

Oh, but it was nice, this heat. Jonathan had been so warm, those few short moments he shared with him in the bathroom stall. It had been painful, extremely uncomfortable, but Tom clung to the memory, as it was the only one he had of a man holding him. But this was different somehow. This was…gentler, stronger, not hurried or dismissive. He snuggled closer. The great big bulk of something in his arms felt warm and firm and so comfortable. Tom was still cold around the edges; the tips of his fingers and ears, a spotty draft that kept one buttock cooler than the rest of him, each and every toe. He flexed his foot and a snap of pain sprang up his leg. He bunched his shoulders in and whimpered.

A hand slid up his back and cupped his cheek. Lips kissed his brow, and a strong calf rubbed the back of his knee.

Tom was hard, he knew this because he felt another erection pushing against his, thick and throbbing.

Cracking open his eyes, Tom stared at a long throat, smooth hollow bobbing as the person swallowed. His gaze drifted down to a smooth and solid chest, stained with something dark. He narrowed his eyes and saw that it was red, like blood.

“Wha—mmph?”

Trailing his eyes down an arm covered in blond hair, up to the hand cupping his cheek, Tom’s heart jumped into this throat at the sight of more blood staining that palm, those long fingers, the square nails caked with it, with dirt and blood. The stench of it was in his nostril, of sweat and iron.

His jaw dropped in horror, a strangled noise of terror spilling out. His chest, his stomach, his face and hips…he was covered in splotches of blood. Had he somehow made up the sex he had with Jonathan? Had he instead been mugged and beaten, cut into, organs stolen?

He reeled back and saw Chris’s shocked face for the first time.

It was Chris who had touched him! Chris who had bloodied him. But whose blood was it? Was it Tom’s blood? Had the man cut off all his toes like he’d threatened earlier?

“What’s wrong?” Chris asked, arms tightening around Tom as he struggled. “Stop. You’re still not well.”

“What have you done?” Tom pushed at his chest, and Chris grunted, hauling him closer. “No! Get off me! Oh god!”He wiggled his toes and found they were still there, but the panic was too high in his blood, heart thudding against his ribcage.

“Easy,” Chris grumbled, stained hands holding onto Tom’s arms.

Tom gave another solid push, and felt the edge of the bed at his back. He cried out as he started to fall, the blood draining from his face. Vertigo washed over his vision and he went limp as another wave of fatigue crashed through him.

But then he was being yanked up, the surface of the bed under him again, cradled against Chris's chest.

“You stupid, stubborn, silly boy,” he whispered gently, palming the back of Tom’s head, fingers sliding into his hair. Tom blinked, throat working, hands splayed over Chris’s abdomen.

“Let me go,” he murmured, trying to ignore those eyes so blue, and thinking instead of all the things William had told him about this man, about the hanging animal carcasses, about how strange and distant he was, how isolated and dangerous. But much to Tom’s surprise, Chris released him, and Tom fell onto his back, gasping up at the ceiling. His erection was gone, replaced by panic and exhaustion, and numbing cold.

He noticed the immediate difference in temperature once out from under the blankets and Chris’s arms. The cabin was freezing, the blizzard still raging outside. But he still pushed to his feet, leaning all his weight on his good leg, his right foot aching with pain. The bandage bloomed with fresh blood but he ignored it, stumbling out of the room and down the hall. Chris was silent in the bed behind him, that unnerving gaze on his back.

He could still feel where the man had been pressed against him, his skin tingling with the memory of his blessedly warm flesh. He could still feel the slide of full lips on his forehead, could still feel the flip in his heart at the tender touch. So different from the impatient roughness of Jonathan.

Biting back sobs, Tom gripped the walls and pulled himself toward the back door, vertigo swimming through his head, mumbling about snow and Quebec and forest shadows slinking close to the ground.

There was a door ajar to the side of the hallway and Tom paused. Even now he could hear the howling winds, knew that, with his inexperience and current nudity, to walk outside meant certain death. But through this side door he saw a line of baskets, and his curiosity peaked. Would such a man have stores of ordinary things, like fruits and vegetables? How disturbingly endearing.

With a trembling hand, he pushed at the door. It yawned open on creaking hinges, revealing a room of horror.

Blood splattered the floor and a battered worktable, on top of which lay a deer carcass, disemboweled and dripping. Glassy, dark eyes stared vacantly at him, pink tongue curled out between twin black rubber lips.

Tom fell back, shoulders colliding painfully with the wall. He caught his scream in both hands, clapping them over his mouth, sobbing out a frightened wail. He slid to the floor, eyes on the dead animal, knowing in the logical part of his mind that Chris had probably only been cleaning the animal to store for food, that that was why his hands were so bloody. But the illogical part of his brain reminded him of the rumors about animals hooked from trees as warning, toes missing just beneath the sheets, and he moaned in dread.

He sat there for some long minutes, the door to the room closing on its own with a slow whine, hiding from view the blood bath within, the baskets of food, the old and rickety washing machine. He dragged in breaths, trying to calm his heart, not to overexert it, to remember himself.

When he heard the grunt, he almost thought it was something bumping into the wall from outside, tossed there by the blowing winds. But then he heard it again, coming from the direction of the bedroom. Very slowly, he rose to his good leg and limped back down the hall. Kneeling down into the cushioned seat of the rocking chair before the fire, he closed his hand over the flat of the backrest, eyes peeking over the edge into the bedroom.

In the watery light from the window, Chris lay on the bed stroking himself with one hand, cupping himself with the other. He tugged on his hard length, head pressed back into the pillow, and Tom watched with bated breath as he neared his climax. Licking his lips, Tom didn’t so much as blink, tongue skimming over the soft inside of his bottom lip, remembering, completely remembering the solid heat of the man, whose body far outweighed Tom’s own, seemed to dwarf him on the bed, blanket over them like a shroud of sun fire. And in the dim moments just before he had fully awakened and seen the blood and sensed the strange man in his arms, Tom couldn’t deny how safe he’d felt, warm and relaxed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like that.

Chris finished finally, all choked groans and lifting hips, blowing his thick load over his own chest. Tom gulped and squeezed the wooden back of the rocking chair, eyes peering into the dim bedroom. And when Chris rose, long body bending and standing tall, he gasped and shrank back a bit, ashamed to have been watching at all. Chris, without a shred of self-consciousness, gaze skirting over where Tom watching him, walked through the main room and down the hall into the back room. Tom followed him with his eyes, hearing the telltale sound of water as he washed himself down.

Of blood and semen, Tom thought in awe, never having met someone who was so comfortable with bodily fluids as this man seemed to be, his own childhood a series of lessons in etiquette and classical literature, rugby practice, impeccable boarding school dorm rooms, and piano concertos. Enough to have converted Tom into a refined young man, sheltered and worthless, never enough in his mother’s eyes. She would never have consented to his leaving London. Leaving on his own was the bravest thing he'd ever done, that and walking up this mountain to begin with.

Back home, there was no way Tom would have been able to find the privacy necessary for such self-explorations, to gain such an easy confidence about his own body and sense of sexual awareness. He stared down the hall where Chris had disappeared, finally turning in the rocking chair and trying to cover his own nakedness with his cupped hands.

And there on the side table he saw the Polaroid he’d had in his jacket pocket. Glancing around, he saw his clothes torn and discarded on the floor. What was he supposed to wear now?

He took the picture in his trembling fingers and stared at himself, at the smile on his face, probably thinking that this would be a marker to a great life on his own, without restrictions and inhibitions. And what had transpired since then? He’d had sex—reckless, in hindsight—in a public restroom with a man he didn’t know; he’d nearly frozen to death in the woods of this mountain; his foot had been trapped in jaws of steel; this bear of a man had saved him and bathed him and put him to bed, slipping in beside him and covering him in animal blood.

And kissing his face like one would a lover, the likes of which Tom had experienced only twice before, and never with this kind of affection: the summer of his sixteenth birthday, in the closet of his piano class, Timothy smashing down his hair, parting his lips with a rough thumb; and again not long ago, Jonathan pecking a trail down his jaw.

His mother wouldn’t believe a word of that if Tom so much as confessed it.

His stomach gave a warning of upset, and he curled over it protectively, arms draped loosely, resting his feverish forehead against the cool wood of the chair, moaning as he felt his sight dip at the edges. He would rest but for a moment. A single moment, and then he would wake and think about what he would do aboutall this…all this…mess.

**

A cool cloth on his forehead, so fresh he ached.

 _It_ _’_ _ll only last the night_.

Tom moaned and shifted toward the touch. Something hot and wonderfully fragrant made his stomach stir, and his lips parted on instinct, warm liquid and bits of meat slipping over his tongue, his taste buds springing to life after so long without food. He swallowed it down, opening his mouth for more.

_Good little fawn. This will make you better._

Tom cracked an eye open. Blinding light from the window. The world was a snow globe. A hand on his cheek.

_Let me put you to bed. Storm_ _’_ _s almost done._

Tom whined and pulled away and the touch fell from his face. Cold. So cold. Padded footsteps on the floor, Tom felt himself shift in the air, lifted and tightly held. Ceiling moving, through a doorway and down. Down into fresh hot water, so good and calm. He moaned, and there was that hand again, smoothing his brow, patting his hair.

Water and the soft swipe of a cloth on his skin. Dripping. Dripping. Fingers on his face, cleaning him. Blue eyes with the most beautiful dark lashes, thick. Thick like cum.

_You_ _’_ _re alright. Stay with me, boy._

But he couldn’t. Because he was so tired and the deep lull of his mind was darkening and it was so easy to just fall away.

Eyes open again. Black skies and a simmering pool of red coals in the grate. He was back in the rocking chair, a throw around his shoulders. But it wasn’t enough against the frost in the air, chill clinging to the exposed skin of his legs, the flat plane of his belly. Turning, he inched his gaze over to the open bedroom door, Chris a large lump on the bed. Tom straightened, back sore and aching from sitting so still for so long, so cold.

The bandage on his foot was fresh, and so he stepped with extreme care, not wanting the wounds to bleed again. He limped into the bedroom, throw clutched tight in weak fingers, and stood beside the bed. Chris shifted and peered up at him, and then lifted the blankets slowly.

Tom didn't hesitate. Letting the throw drop to the floor, he crawled over the mattress and slipped in beside Chris, facing away at the last moment, face flooding with heat. He left a foot of space between them, tucking his hands under his cheek, and breathed out slowly. This was much better, warmer, more comfortable. He felt his mind start to blank out almost immediately.

He could feel Chris behind him, could feel the bubble of heat made by his body, those eyes watching him, and he sighed. The blanket fell over him, and Tom skimmed his fingers over the edge, drawing it tighter over his shoulders.

They lay in silence, the wind whistling past the window, the cabin creaking despite its solid girth. Just as he was drifting into sleep, Tom felt the bed shift as Chris scooted closer. He tensed when Chris pulled him against his chest, spooning him from behind. But he didn't fight it, relaxing after a moment and leaning back into him. Tom was warm, and he was cozy, and undeniably the safest he'd been in days.

There was a column of light falling over the floor when Tom woke up again, a bright beam that reflected golden on the wooden boards. Someone mouthed at his neck and he angled his head back, giving them more room.

A hand slid up his belly, wide and long, the thick ridge of callouses skimming over his nipples, rising higher to cup his throat. Tom moaned and pressed his hips back. The person growled low, chest rumbling, silky strands of blond hair falling over Tom’s cheekbone.

His eyes sprang open.

He made a small noise of protest in the back of his throat, and Chris’s hands tightened on him.

“Wait—,” Tom gasped as Chris spun him, golden head bent to kiss his neck. Tom arched away, effectively bringing their groins together, hard, hard.

He squeezed his eyes shut, voice muffled in alarm when Chris slotted their mouths together, hands like paws at his back, anchoring him close. His strength was nothing against Chris, his lips feeble against the kisses Chris gave freely, over his cheeks and nose, brow and temples. The man was a crushing wave and Tom was caught under the force of it.

Gasping, he leaned back and Chris’s head dipped to his neck, nipping at him.

“Wait—please. I said stop!” His voice broke, throat ragged from his illness.

He pushed and Chris drew back, lips flushed red, hair hanging in soft strands around his face. His hands still held Tom’s wrists, their only point of contact, as if by letting him go Tom would disappear from his sight.

“Are we back to this again then?” he asked, voice gruff.

Tom’s mouth opened and closed, unsure what to say.

“I’m just…I was just…alarmed, is all! I wake up to you all over me and I’m not supposed to be afraid?”

“You don’t like it?”

Tom reddened, and bit his lip.

Chris’s face softened, and he pulled Tom another inch closer. “It’s only me, little boy.”

Tom nearly pouted, eyes flitting away. “I’m _not_ little.”

Chris smiled, and Tom stared, realizing the man hadn’t smiled the entire time they’d been trapped in his cabin.

“You are to me, little bug. How old are you, anyway?”

“I’ll be twenty-one. Soon.”

“When?”

“February.” Tom tugged on his wrists, to no use, and hurried on with a hitched breath of nervousness. “I went dancing for my birthday. Went out with some friends from school. It was raining, like it always is back home in London. And we slipped and laughed down the street, going from club to club. I was soaked by the end of the night, in sweat and rain water, and slept for like fourteen hours after. Scandalized my mother.” He fell silent, cheeks reddening, and licked his lips.

Chris’s eyes followed the movement, lifting his thumb to stroke the corner of Tom’s mouth.

“I like the way you talk. The way your lip droops down sometimes.”

Flushing, Tom lowered his eyes, suddenly self-conscious. “A-And you? How old are you?”

Chris sighed through his nose, eyes closing. “Thirty-five. At least I think I am. Give or take a year. I don’t have a current calendar.”

Tom’s brows scrunched in thought. Chris’s mouth opened and then snapped shut, lashes fluttering in worry.

“I don’t want you frightened of me,” he said after a moment, very quietly.

Unable to meet the intensity of his gaze, Tom eyed where Chris held his wrists, long thumbs stroking his pulse point.

“I just...I don’t know you,” he mumbled, and Chris dragged him closer, crushing him against his chest. Tom gasped and grabbed on.

“I’m me,” he whispered, tilting Tom’s face up. “I saved you, and I’m happy that you're—.”

But Tom bristled, pushing against his chest. “And you think that means I owe you or something?”

Chris hugged him tight, their noses bumping.

“Quit your squirmin’, little bug.” Their eyes darted over each other’s faces, Tom’s heated with something other than the fever that still lingered in his blood. Chris traced his jawline with a finger.

“You’re so pretty,” he said, hushed. “With this rosebud mouth. Your hair like spun gold.”

Jonathan's nearly identical words echoed in Tom's mind, but he was so focused on Chris before him that he only nodded absently, captivated by the thick sweep of Chris’s lashes, reminding him of something he might have dreamed once.

Sagging into him, Tom slowly relaxed, letting Chris paw at his face, letting him sniff at his hairline, lay gentle kisses to his nose.

“You won’t murder me?” Tom heard himself ask, voice small.

Chris’s beard tickled his chin and he lifted his head for more, quietly excited about the fact that he could so easily extend his affection and it would be welcomed, even returned twofold.

“No, little bug. I won’t murder you.”

Tom, not entirely reassured by the fact that what he said could imply that he would murder something _sometime_ , was comforted nevertheless. He embraced Chris around his back and sighed at his neck, soaking up his heat. The man smelled of sweat and forest, and something softer, like fallen snow. He scrunched his nose.

“You need to bathe,” he murmured, nosing his way deeper into Chris’s neck anyway.

Chris chuckled, a rumble that vibrated into Tom and made him think of the thundering hooves of horses.

“You feel…better now?” Chris asked quietly, tilting his head down.

“A bit, yes.”

“A city boy like yourself, you should never have come here alone,” he admonished gently, a note of amusement in his voice. Tom huffed and wriggled. Chris touched his forehead to Tom’s cheek. “You’re still warm. The fever hasn’t let up.”

“I almost died,” Tom whispered.

“And you didn’t. I won’t let you.”

They were quiet and then Tom asked, “Why the blood?”

“Because I was in the middle of a chore and you needed heat right away. I couldn’t stand to see you suffer another moment while I went to wash my hands. It’s just deer blood. It’s harmless.”

Tom shuddered.

There was a tapping at the window and they lifted their gazes to the wall. The outline of large bird appeared through the curtains, peering in and cawing.

Chris smiled as Tom frowned.

“What is that? A crow?”

Smacking a loud kiss on his cheek, Chris tossed the blankets away and went to stand at the window. Tom bundled himself against the pillows, freezing still.

“Why are you smiling?” Tom asked, finding that he hoped Chris would smile more often. It really was a lovely sight.

Chris turned to him, standing tall and proud in all his nakedness, the long lines of his body strong and thick.

“Storm’s over. The skies will clear by nightfall.”

**

It was a wonder to watch Chris go about his work.

Tom, clothed in thick wool long johns and a large flannel shirt that fell to the middle of his thighs, sat by the fire as Chris moved about the house. Dressed in jeans and another flannel shirt under a stout woolen jacket, boots scuffed and stained with grime, Chris looked all the more like the rugged mountain man Tom knew he was. He had pulled his long hair into a messy bun and Tom wished, rather silently, that he could touch those strands again.

But Chris rose and started his business around the cabin, so Tom let him be. Blanket snug around him, he raised a mug of hot broth to his lips, sipping at it. It tasted a little funny, but still delicious. It was made from rabbit, Chris had told him, and Tom was just content to be able to hold the liquid down. A hoarse rattle had settled deep in his chest, and he’d been coughing all morning. The hot broth felt good on his raw throat, not as good as when Chris knelt before him that morning and fed him a spoonful of dark brown honey, licking his own lips absentmindedly as Tom’s mouth closed over the spoon.

The lighting was vastly better than it had been during the storm, and Tom got a good look around the place. Blue and white checkered curtains hung from every window, and Tom thought they had a decidedly feminine look about them. Rectangular rugs lay under the sofa and before the fireplace. Chris's bedroom was simple: a dresser and two small tables, all rustic, like he'd made them himself. The bed was huge, lifted high from the floor, frame made of dark wood with a soft, fluffy mattress. And there were weapons everywhere. A shotgun and rifle lay on the table, half dismantled for cleaning. There was an axe by the front door and a cross bow strung to a peg on the wall. Another gun and some large knives rested on the side table, and Tom curled in under the blanket, hoping he didn’t trip and kill himself on something sharp.

Wearing a dark knitted wool cap, Chris moved in and out of the cabin, his long-legged steps taking him from point to point in quick, confident strides. In for a wide-lipped shovel, out to scrape at the snow, scooping ice shards in a way that reminded Tom of fruit-flavored snow cones at the park near where he grew up. The grating sound was loud, drawing Tom from his doze. He heard the door open again and then Chris’s mouth was on his neck, bending low over the back of Tom’s chair. Tom startled, gasping, but Chris held him down with a hand on his chest, murmuring that it was only him, little bug, don’t be afraid.

Embracing him warmly, Chris lingered at his neck, nuzzling, and Tom softened, resting his head back against his wide shoulder. Chris's hand slid down to his belly and lingered there, rubbing softly before giving him another squeeze and moving away, leaving a spot of cold on his skin. Tom curled onto his side, trying to chase the warmth hardly lingering. How bewildering it was to him that they’d slipped into this familiar intimacy, something Tom thought came only after months of knowing a person. How had he come to be here, he thought faintly, rocking in his chair. How had this happened?

Chris left again with an armful of dry firewood from the back room. With a small murmur of warning, he brought out the pieces of deer last, the ones that had remained after the chop of his butchering knife, ducking out through the front door and into the cold midday. Gagging only mildly, Tom forced himself not to stare at the trail of blood drops that disappeared onto the porch.

Curious now, he stood slowly and limped to the window, parting the curtains to peer out.

Chris had cleared a path through the snow and toward the side of the yard. There, atop a pyre of sorts, made from rough bricks and chunks of gray rock, he prepared a fire, stoking the flames until they were crackling and whipping smartly into the air. He squatted and gathered the deer parts in his arms with little concern for the stains of blood on his jacket.

Dropping them one by one into the flames, Chris made sure every inch of the bones was consumed, black smoke rising to a sky so blinding with white clouds that made Tom’s eyes burn and water. The entire world seemed covered in mounds of snow, only the thicker tree trunks in the encroaching forest stood out starkly as pillars of black and brown. But there were twinkling spots of lights amid the darker parts of the woods, like bursts of glitter that made Tom squint and peer closer. It was exactly what he’d remembered seeing as he lay sprawled on the ground, foot in the animal trap, a shadow slinking behind a tree. Was he still hallucinating?

Disquiet lit inside his ribs, and Tom swallowed, taking a small step back. As much as the woods made him uneasy after his horrifying experience, there was still something enchanting about witnessing so wild a place, ancient even, the trees growing tall into the sky, as if they’d been there for hundreds of years and would be there for hundreds more after he was dust in the ground. The forest seemed so big and looming, able to suck you in and drown you under thick roots and sopping leaves, a dangerous place, but it was beautiful and full of wonder, he thought, looking out at the trees, the figure of Chris moving in his periphery.

Maybe he would venture out again once he was better. With Chris beside him, of course, to kill anything with big claws.

Chris was outside for as long as the fire burned, adjusting the bones with a long stick, until they were all ash. Trudging back up the porch stairs, he pounded his boots on the rattling floor and then came inside, snow sprinkling from his hair.

Tom stood with one hand leaning on the window, swaying slightly. Chris walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around Tom’s waist, bending his head to kiss his neck again.

“You’re freezing,” Tom whispered, pressing his cheek to Chris’s face.

“So are you. Come on.” He tugged at Tom’s hand, but Tom scrunched his nose.

“There’s blood all over you.”

Chris looked down and then rolled his eyes. “It’s harmless—.”

“It’s _disgusting._ And unsanitary.”

“You grew up in a city, little fawn.”

Tom lifted his chin. “Do you have to keep bringing that up? I'm sorry if I wasn't born from some vaginal canal-like crag in the mountainside like you probably were.”

Chris smirked, and flicked a finger under Tom’s chin, playfully.

“All right, little bug. But only because you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He retreated into the bathroom as Tom crossed his arms and huffed.

“Prettiest thing, honestly,” he muttered, but blushed when he heard Chris chuckle from down the hall.

Hobbling into the bedroom, Tom lay back against the pillows with a relieved sigh. Everything hurt. His back and waist, his shoulders and the tips of his fingers and ears, aching with a fatigue he’d never felt before. And his foot hurt the worst, his pulse beating strong at the punctures. He felt it still, the sharp dig of the trap’s teeth, the cruel steel, his skin torn and bleeding. A wound like his would take weeks to heal, and he wondered where he would be in that time. Still on this mountain? Quebec? Back in the UK, admitting defeat at his world travels, stuck in school again, a shameful stain on his mother’s lineage?

The touch of a hot hand on his face shocked him from sleep, and he opened his eyes, hazy and disoriented, arms lifting to ward off.

“Skittish little bug,” Chris murmured, nuzzling his temple. “Like a newborn fawn.”He smelled clean, like soap and something lightly floral, and Tom nosed along his jaw, inhaling.

Sleep tugged at Tom’s mind, and he was only half-aware of sliding his hands over Chris’s damp hair, only half-aware of the soft whimper Chris made, leaning close and kissing behind his ear, breathing in his scent, grabbing Tom’s shoulders and rolling him into a tight hug. And Tom drifted easily in that warm embrace, the strength of Chris like a shroud, whispering his name, his own whispered back to him until he fell off the edge of it all, into sleep.

Hours passed. He woke every now and then, rolling under the sheets, foot throbbing. He caught glimpses of Chris through the open doorway of the bedroom, moving about the cabin. Cleaning his guns, putting them together again. He hummed under his breath, a deep thrum that reached Tom’s ears and made his chest flutter with something like affection. Sleep again, and then waking, curled around a pillow, Chris’s distant figure bent over the fire, stoking it. The smell of something savory and fragrant, some kind of meat, juicy and tender, wafted in the air and Tom moaned, head shifting on the pillow.

“Are you hungry, little bug?”

The whisper came from a far void, Tom’s eyes rolling under his lids, trying to place it. A hand in his hair, another spread over his chest, lips at his cheek and sweet breaths on his brow.

Chris was starved for touch, Tom suddenly knew this. A flurry of pity bubbled in his heart, at so lonely a person, so isolated and unloved. He let Chris paw at him, cupping his cheek and moaning into the kisses he placed on his skin. Tom lifted his arms and Chris took him up into his own, cradling Tom like a child, carrying him into the main room. He sat him in the rocking chair, and knelt at his feet to feed him spoonful after spoonful of hot soup, tearing off pieces of what was probably deer meat, slipping them between Tom’s lips, bursts of flavor on his tongue, his eyes fluttered in pleasure and relief.

Chris’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, and fed him more.

So passed the early days of Tom’s convalescence, in bursts of semi-lucidity and deep waves of sleep. Chris moved in circles around him, like a star revolving the sun, bangs and rasps of woodwork sounding elsewhere in the cabin. Other times the place was subdued and quiet, making Tom think Chris might be outside somewhere, hunting or burning more bones. And he dreamt, he dreamt of reflections of a toilet bowl, his hand splayed on cold tile; he dreamt of the fear that had struck his heart in that small forest glade he’d fallen into, of biting jaws and slinking shadows just out of sight.

Chris was always there when Tom woke, leaning over him, eyes tight with concern.

“Little fawn,” he would whisper as Tom fought to wake fully, whimpering and grabbing at Chris, the only solid thing, the only heated thing, drawing him from his nightmares.

At night they lay together, wrapped tightly under the blanket, Chris lavishing him with kisses and heavy touches. Gasping, Tom would respond and hold him, his arms barely able to wrap around the back of the man, so wide were his shoulders, so great was his yearning.

It never went further than that, even though Chris’s desire was plain. He would rut against Tom, who blinked dazedly, still swimming in some ethereal mental twilight. Tom would murmur and pant, arching as Chris stole his breath and left him with bruises the shape of fingers and teeth. Sinking between Tom’s legs, Chris rolled against him, their hips flushed, their erections hot and bunched and rubbing together, emotions such as Tom had never felt before cresting over his chest and blooming over his face, making Chris moan and plant moist kisses to his cheeks.

He liked the little noises Tom made, the small cries and whimpers, gathering him up in his arms and whispering yes, little bug, tell me, show me, my little bug.

In the middle of such frenzy one night, Chris spun Tom onto his stomach and parted his cheeks, thumb sliding up Tom’s perineum to nudge at his hole. Tom, making a panicked noise in his throat, craned his neck to look at him over his shoulder, eyes wide with worry. His mind resonated with his gasps in a sterile restroom stall, cheek pressed to the cold tile.

Chris hushed him gently, splaying a wide hand between Tom’s shoulders to keep him down. He rubbed Tom’s hole as Tom bucked weakly, heart racing. But rather than stick himself inside Tom, abrupt and impatient, Chris pressed between Tom’s cheeks and started sliding his cock forward and back, over and over. Tom rocked beneath him, surprise making him pliant and soft, chills plumping his pale skin. Wrapping an arm under Tom’s throat, Chris draped himself over his back, shoving still, his wide girth spreading Tom’s cheeks as the broad head of his cock poked his lower back again and again.

“Chris—,” Tom gasped, lifting his hips, his own erection trapped under him.

“Do you like this, little fawn?” Chris moaned into his ear, enveloping Tom with his weight and scent and heat, and Tom, overwhelmed and completely at his mercy, nodded and writhed, lifting his face to mouth at Chris’s jaw, desperate, so desperate.

“When you’re better, then, I’ll fuck you good and hard. Yeah, little fawn?

“Yes,” Tom panted, eyes half-closed. “Yes, okay. Chris, yes.”

Growling now, Chris put his weight into every thrust, Tom’s cries half-muffled in the pillows, making his mind spin with ideas of what the real thing would be like, the strength and power in the man at his back. Chris’s lips slid into his hair, dipped low to bite at his neck, and Tom froze, feeling pinned and dwarfed, blood rising with sparks, mind spinning from the effect this man was having on him. 

With a single hand, Chris hauled Tom’s hips up and slid his arm under, taking his leaking cock in his fist. Tom jerked, crying out, and Chris smiled into his hair. He pumped his hand, rough and slightly dry, using the broad tip of his thumb to stroke the slit. Tom came embarrassingly fast, arching up into Chris, who held him through the spasms, sucking on his ear, his wide hand spread over Tom’s chest.

“Good little fawn,” he rasped, moving faster. Tom went limp in his arms, and Chris laid him down gently, rutting against him harder.

And when Chris came, Tom fell still, feeling the warm spurts of cum on his back, so much of it, ropes and ropes of heat, and he thought that one day all those ribbons of cum would fill him up, the most intimate a gesture Tom would ever have experienced, the thin membrane of a condom not separating them, something he might never have let himself know back in London, not under his mother’s watchful eye.

They fell into a doze after, the dark of the cabin punctuated only by the simmering coals of the fire in the main room, casting a soft red glow into the bedroom. Tom’s eyes caught on the sharp glint of Chris’s thumbnail, remembering it pressed to his entrance.

Worrying at his lip, Tom wondered what his friends, his _mother_ , would think of him should they see him as he was now, naked in another man’s bed, the traces of their releases still flaking from Tom’s spine, dried and caked to the sheets. The things they’d done…it bewildered and excited Tom unlike anything ever had.

He blushed and turned in his arms, hiding his face in Chris’s neck. How to tell him that before his risky and stupid voyeur episode inside a bus depot restroom, he’d only so much as kissed someone in the dusty and dark storage closet of a classroom? That when Chris said things like ‘fuck’and ‘you’and ‘good’and ‘hard’it made Tom red up to his hairline, made him think of the shameful things boys at his school told him men did to each other in locker rooms and mechanic shops, dirty men. Men with no future, as his mother would lead him to believe, as if already foreseeing her son’s quiet and embarrassed confession, and nipping it in the bud before its inception? But these past few days of staying with Chris, Tom knew that just wasn’t true. Yes, Chris was coarse and a bit abrupt, with his easy strength and nonexistent table manners, so long without human contact, touch-starved and withdrawn. Driven by desires and emotions that other people would have learned to conceal, openly revealing how lacking his upbringing might have been, how little he cared for the expectations of polite society, and there was something daring about that part of Chris’s character that Tom was beginning to love quite ardently. He imagined, with intense relish, how a sit-down between Chris and Tom’s mother would go, and he smiled at the thought. Something would lay broken by the end of that meeting. Her precious and priceless china probably, crushed in Chris’s impressive paws. But not her son. No. Tom had a feeling Chris would handle him with the utmost care, as he’d already displayed in the last days.

The next morning, Chris was gone from the bed by the time Tom woke up.

His face burned at the memories of the night before, Chris’s weight on his back, his cock spreading him, rutting between his cheeks, feigning a good fuck, promising the real thing once Tom was better. He ran a hand down his cheeks, at the lingering whispers of Chris’s kisses there, the slight burn on his chin and neck from Chris’s beard. Seared into his eyelids was image after image of Chris above him,  the weight of him, the heat. The skin of his hands and forearms, his neck and upper chest, was golden brown from time spent outside. But all along his belly and torso and back, the thick meat of his thighs and sharp bones of his feet and ankles were milky white, and Tom enjoyed seeing his smaller hands tucked against him, loved the subtle differences in their bodies, and the brave and beautiful similarities.

“Heavens,” he whispered, still a bit dazed and floating from all that had happened.

Sitting up, he glanced around and saw a small gift on the pillow next to him. It was a small wooden carving, a baby deer with furry tail and spotted rump.

_A fawn._

Tom smiled and picked it up, brushing away stray shavings as fine as dust from its tiny ears. Chris must have done this himself sometime that morning.

Wrapping himself in the blanket, Tom slipped Chris’s wool socks onto his feet, careful with the bandages on his wound. He padded into the living room, noting the stillness of the place. That didn’t always mean Chris was outside. The man moved so quietly, hardly speaking, knowing where to step that would prevent creaks in the floorboards, that he often snuck up on Tom without even meaning to.

“Chris?” His voice, still hoarse from his snow illness, was coming back slowly, still raspy and deeper than usual. Under Chris’s care, Tom was bettering daily.

There was no answer, so he went to the front window and parted the curtains to peer out. Chris stood in the yard, a pile of chopped wood by his boots, an axe in his hand. His hair was dusted with snow, staring up at the treetops, standing so still.

It was with a gasp of surprise that Tom saw a blue-feathered bird land on Chris’s shoulder, hopping on its tiny feet, lifting its wing to poke beneath, cleaning itself as if it weren’t the strangest thing in the world to be standing on a gigantic human. And then another bird landed on Chris’s other shoulder, flitting around his collar to dance a circle around the first bird. Chris didn’t move an inch, face turned up to the sky.

The birds held no fear of Chris.

And then Chris tilted his head down, turning his face slowly to smile at the birds. Lifting a hand, he held a gloved finger out and the birds hopped on, shaking their tail feathers and twittering happily. Chris laughed, a great rumble that shook his shoulders and sent the birds into flight, circling his head and disappearing into the sky.

Tom’s mouth parted, completely astonished to have witnessed so lovely a sight.

As he stared, Chris turned and spotted him at the window. He smiled and winked at Tom from across the yard, and Tom, mesmerized, lifted a hand and smiled back.

Lifting the axe over his head, Chris swung it down and sliced through the waiting piece of wood, splitting it in two with a violent crack.

**

Walking was difficult to do, but Tom managed a little more each day. Sometimes he collapsed into the rocking chair in front of the fire Chris would create for him before heading outside, and sometimes he made it to the front window, only slightly out of breath, the throbbing in his foot subdued but still present. He couldn’t tell how much time had passed since his injury, since that awful night he had broken into Chris’s cabin and nearly died. It was hard to tell day from night, morning from afternoon, day after day passing without notice. Accustomed to the convenience of technology, Tom had always depended on his phone to remind him of the time and date, but he had deliberately thrown his phone away in the trash bin back in the Michigan bus depot, figuring he wouldn’t need it where he was going. He could always afford a new one. He could afford so many things now.

Whatever amount of time had passed, it wasn’t nearly enough to start to feel a drastic change in his injury, which he was. There was significantly less pain, but enough tenderness remained to warn him into caution, stepping carefully, braving some stretches while lying in bed. Chris changed the bandages every night, placing wet herbs on his skin before wrapping the cotton tight.

“What is that?” Tom had asked, and Chris stroked his ankle, saying only, “Just some plants I collect every spring.”Whatever it was seemed to be working, even though it was hard to gauge whether the wounds were closing healthily. The skin around was still puffy and red, the center of the punctures dark black with old blood. He would scar, for sure.

It was harder to tell if Chris had done this before, because Tom had so often slipped in and out of consciousness from pain and fatigue and fever, but there had been a couple of times when he’d woken in the night to find Chris gone. Once, he spotted him before the fire in the main room, naked and squatting to stoke it into a gentle flame. But other times, he felt that unnatural stillness in the cabin indicative of emptiness. If Chris went outside during the night, Tom didn’t know, but surely he wouldn’t? Not in that weather, in that paralyzing cold?

Solving the mystery that was Chris would take longer than the short time Tom had spent in his company, as fascinating and overwhelming as the experience was turning out.

Tom woke up one morning to find Chris already gone, another wooden carving left on his pillow, a tiny hummingbird. Tom smiled and added it to the line he kept on the windowsill—a tiny doe, a bumblebee, a sunflower, a long-tailed wolf, and now a hummingbird. He slipped into Chris’s soft robe and hobbled into the kitchen, searching for coffee.

Chris had left a pot simmering, his own empty mug sitting in the sink. Tom took it and refilled it with coffee for himself, the sweet and bitter scent of the fresh grounds rising to his nostrils. Placing the pot back into its holder, he lifted the mug and took a tentative sip, a sound at the window lifting his gaze.

His eyes widened on the moose standing there, its blunt nosed snout pushing at the window until it yawned open.

Tom shrieked, dropping the mug to the floor where it shattered and splashed boiling coffee everywhere. The skin of his good leg burned and he backpedaled, slipping and falling on his backside. The moose made a deep noise in its throat and lifted its head away—the thing was _huge_ —standing a good two feet above the top window ledge.

“Chris!”           

Tom crawled backward, hands flailing on the wet floor.

The front door crashed open and Chris stood there, eyes landing on Tom, who pointed at the moose, a string of babbled words pouring from his mouth. Chris cursed under his breath and sprinted back outside. Tom could hear him shooing away the moose, who made another loud noise before lumbering away from the window.

Chris hurried back inside and squatted next to Tom, gathering him in his arms and standing fast. Tom clung to his shoulders and winced, the skin of his legs stinging from the coffee burns.

“Little fawn,” Chris whispered against his temple. “You’ve gone and hurt yourself again.”

“That bloody _beast_ frightened me!” Tom said, feeling tears rise in his eyes. It wasn’t his fault he’d been hurt again, and it made him upset that Chris thought he had done it to himself. “I’ve never seen or—or even heard of one coming up to a house like that!”

Chris smothered him in kisses. “Let me look at you, bug.”He took him to the rocking chair in the living room, kneeling before him and checking his skin. “Just a minor burn. You’ll live.”

Tom sniffed and looked away. Kissing him on the tip of his nose, Chris went to the kitchen and returned with a tub of salve and new bandages. Tom sat forward as Chris undressed his wound, the soiled bandage unraveling to reveal his punctures, moist herbs spread like dark varicose veins over them. But they were less red than the day before, looking slightly smaller than he’d expected.

“What?” he murmured, leaning down and touching his foot. “How’s that possible? It should be weeks before they look like this, Chris. What is this?”

Chris, guiding his hand away, shrugged and started dabbing at the wounds with the salve.

“It’s the woods, is all,” he said quietly.

Tom gaped at him, disbelieving, and then sat back, eyes drawn to the front window, outside of which light flurries of snow fell, the woods a distant blur of black and brown. And floating among the trees like fireflies were the same lights Tom had seen that awful and fateful day he stumbled his way up this mountain, floating there like they belonged to the same earth as him, as if they owned the very air he breathed.

**

He was running. Something was back there. He was running and then falling through space, colliding with a wall of ice, his foot ensnared in steel. He screamed and launched upright, breaths ragged, chest rising and falling in panic.

“Chris,” he gasped, but the bed was empty.

The room was dark, not even a fire in the living room to send a soft glow through the doorway. It was palpable, that dark, and Tom blinked and squinted, trying to breathe through his fear.

“Chris,” he sobbed, the space next to him cold where there was always heat, a solid body to wrap him close. Somewhere in the house a door clapped open, making him jump and cower against the headboard. The slap of bare feet in the hall and then a tall shadow by the door.

Tom cried low, remembering what had stalked him in the woods of his dreams, but then Chris’s voice bloomed in the dark, hurrying to Tom’s side.

“No, little fawn. Don’t cry. It’s only me. Just me, is all.”

Tom reached his arms and circled Chris’s neck, gasping at the cold feel of him.

“You’re freezing!” he cried, trying to draw away, but Chris wrapped him close, pushing him down to the bed.

“I’m sorry. I’ll warm you up soon. I promise.”

“Were you outside?”

Chris buried his face in Tom’s neck, inhaling. And then he nodded his head, and there was a tremor to his voice.

“I don’t know. I don’t know why I was outside. I don’t remember. But I heard you, Tom. I heard you and I came.”

They stared at each other in the dark, seeing nothing but the shine of their eyes in the nebulous moonlight from behind the curtains.

“Stay with me,” Tom whispered. “Don’t go away.”

Chris shook his head and kissed him fast, once, twice, three times.

“I won’t go, little bug. I won’t.”

They crowded under the blankets, both shivering, both clinging to the other. Sweet breaths mingling, Tom scratched at Chris’s beard, loving the contented purr he gave, arching his neck so Tom could reach beneath.

“Why did you burn the deer?” he asked, remembering the day Chris built the pyre.

Chris pressed their cheeks together and huffed out an exhausted sigh. “Because the deer was of the earth, and fire returns all good things to the earth. To be renewed. To be whole again. It always has.”His voice faded low, sounding sad and pensive. He grew silent, and Tom stroked his hair, wondering what he was thinking about.

**

Could the townspeople have been so greatly wrong about Chris?

He was rough around the edges, slightly unbelieving of Tom’s lack of survival skills, often dirty and speaking rarely, and apart from the few harried and terrifying moments toward the beginning, when waking had been a battle of wills, not to mention that time with the _blood_ , Tom had detected no danger from Chris, no evidence that he was anything but a gentle and lonely, if solitary, man of the mountain.

And Tom was a boy from the city, educated in literature and the arts, in music and culture, but completely unknowing in the art of subsistence and endurance in as wild and treacherous and _free_ a place where Chris made his home. Tom thought back to his life in London, the never ending schedules, the lessons, the incessant restriction. His mother wouldn’t lose anything by losing him. His sisters were so much more accomplished than he was, the preferred ones, the loved ones. Being friends with the family lawyer’s son had its perks. It had almost been too easy. Family dinner, excusing himself to the bathroom, hacking into the computer in the lawyer’s study. He’d ended up on this mountain, with this man. His bag with his money was in the living room still, hanging from a peg by the front window. He could leave now. He had the means. It was all a matter of wanting to.

He told himself he would think about it the next day. And the next.

It was with a frown of curiosity that Tom noticed Chris kept no mirrors in the house. He had to peer into the shining surface of a frying pan to see how the wounds on his face were progressing. He was badly bruised, his cheek and fingers and the bottom half of his right leg mottled with red and purple. The cuts on his face and hands were scabbed and healing slowly, but they itched terribly and made for uncomfortable motor skills. He still had a terrible cough, hacking from deep in his lungs, often suffering fits early in the morning that left him breathless and wheezing. Chris would press him back down to the bed and smooth a soothing salve on his chest and throat, rubbing his hands together first to create a hot friction that made Tom moan gratefully, his whole body rocking gently under those big hands.

The more time he spent with him, the more Tom saw that Chris worked sunup to sundown. Now that Tom was feeling more centered and less feverish, he didn’t like just lying around doing nothing. When Chris stepped outside one afternoon, Tom took the opportunity to gather the sheets and dirty clothes that had accumulated since his arrival, thinking he would contribute in any way he could.

He bent carefully, his muscles still sore, bundling the soiled garments in his arms. Remembering seeing a washing machine in the back room that night he’d seen the deer carcass, he headed in that direction. It was an older model, with rusted knobs and a heavy lid, but it was functional. He sprinkled some of the detergent Chris kept in a cracked porcelain bowl and set a load to wash, closing the door behind him as the machine started to bump loudly against the wall.

If there was one thing his mother never taught him it was his way around a kitchen. Filled with spotted pots and pans and rustic looking kitchenware and utensils, the kitchen was homey and quietly chaotic, everything mismatched and well used. Tom leaned against the doorway, slightly out of breath, and decided to let it remain Chris’s domain, padding out into the bedroom to replace the sheets. He found a spare set in the hallway closet, shelves filled with extra bedding and boxes of ammunition and tethered arrows and dirty boots lining the floor. On the top shelf, he noticed a pale green satin box, gold clasp half open.

He looked down the hall, listening for Chris, but heard nothing. He was probably outside. Standing on his tiptoes, he reached for the box and brought it down. Lifting the lid, he saw velvet-lined interior, in which lay a gold and purple-jeweled hair barrette shaped like the outspread wings of a butterfly. A plain gold ring. A string of pearls. And a handful of teeth strewn about like pomegranate seeds.

Tom gasped, dropping the box down from his face.

“I found those after the fire.”

He yelped and spun, clutching the box to his chest. Chris stood in the hall, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Face passive, he didn’t look upset, only pensive, staring down at the floor, brows scrunched.

“The fire?” Tom repeated softly.

Chris nodded. “She was wearing that the night she died. She and my father had gotten all dressed up. Wanted to go to the Christmas banquet the church puts together every year. He didn’t want to go. I remember that. I remember their little argument. ‘They don’t want us there, Sarah. I won’t go forcing myself into the lives of people that don’t want us.’

But she was quietly adamant. Sweet in that way my father couldn’t resist. Smiling and putting on a bit of makeup. Rare for her. Bringing out her one pretty dress, the good one. That barrette in her hair, the pearls. I’d been feeling ill all day, otherwise I’d probably have gone with them. You see, I’d had an itch in my feet for days. Nothing could cure it. I felt like _running_. But it was so cold out, and running through the woods didn’t seem like the best idea with the sun gone and my parents driving down the road in our only vehicle. I tried lying about. Playing with my toy guns. I was a bit old for them at fourteen, but they were all I had. That and a red ball I used to kick around with Liam, who was nine. But he was in bed and I was fidgeting on the sofa, restless.

The fire was burning low, and I figured I could take a quick run, scratch that itch, and be back in a jiff. I thought wrong.”

He sighed and scratched at his beard, and Tom blinked fast, trying to imagine the big man before him at fourteen, all smooth skin and lean muscle, hands too big for his body, arms and legs stretching fast, shooting up like a reed. His fingers trembled on the box in his hands.

“My parents, rejected by the folks in town, turned away at the church door, came back early, my mother in tears probably. The cabin was already in flames at that point. It collapsed on them when they ran inside for Liam and me. Only I wasn’t there. I was out in the woods, that’s all I know. I don’t remember anything else, what I was doing out there, why I felt the need to go.”He scuffed the tip of his boot on the wooden floor, shrugging. “The people in town don’t believe me. They just judge. They, who didn’t come up to check on us, even after seeing the blaze that burned all night and most of the next day. Spreading to the pens, killing the pigs and the chicken and the geese. Our kitten. I stumbled back home, dirty, disoriented. Feeling like I’d been abducted by aliens and returned hundreds of years later, everyone gone, everything dead.”He gritted his jaw, eyes wet. “I sat in the yard, covered in ash and shit, until it burned itself out. I went through every inch. Found bits of them. Their bones and teeth. My mother’s jewelry. Liam’s silver spinning top. I buried them out back, my hands bleeding after hours of digging in the frozen earth. And I started from scratch. My dad’s shed was spared, with all his tools and my mother’s washing machine. I built the whole place up again. Leaving traps for food. Drinking water from the springs. I nearly froze that winter, but I toughed it out. Going to sleep in the shed, sometimes waking the next morning out in the woods. I think my sleep walking was worse when I was younger. I still do it, but not as often.”

He fell silent, and Tom shifted on his feet. It was the most Chris had spoken since Tom came into his life, and it was both endearing and disquieting. How terrible for a fourteen year old to have to sift through a pile of ashes for his parents’and brother’s remains, saving teeth like talisman to remember them by.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Chris lifted his head and met Tom’s eyes. “Because I like you, Tom. And I don’t want you to hate me like they do.”

Tom felt tears rising, and he swallowed, stepping toward him. “I don’t hate you, Chris. You saved me. I owe you my life.”

Chris looked down, slightly guarded. “Is that the only reason you like me?”

Tom smiled and reached to return the box into its place. He closed the closet door and stepped up to Chris, cupping his cheeks, trying to meet his eyes. “No, Chris. That’s not the only reason I like you.”

“I…I understand if you don’t, Tom. People usually don’t. I won’t blame you if you decide to leave once you’re bet—.”

Tom leaned forward and kissed him, surprise making Chris stiffen. But then he moaned and clutched Tom close, wrapping his arms around him and dragging him in for a deeper kiss. He turned them so Tom’s back was against the wall, and he crowded him in, lips molding together, chests flush, rolling his hips forward.

Crushed against the wall, Tom gasped and arched, arms lifted to circle Chris’s neck, dragging him down. They fumbled and grabbed at each other, Chris’s scent and weight overpowering Tom, and he let himself be swept up in the hurricane that was this man.

“Wait!” he gasped and Chris broke away with a frustrated growl, eyes dark on Tom’s lips. Tom inhaled quickly to reassure him, but like a wick catching flame, his throat lit with fire and he bent double, coughing wetly into his palm, chest aching deep. His throat burned and stung, and he fell back against the wall, eyes streaming, dragging in air.

“I’m not…” he wheezed. “I’m not well yet, Chris. I don’t want you to get sick.”

He tried leaning away, but Chris grabbed him up and kissed Tom’s mouth softly, pressure so gentle and sweet. Tom melted against him, gripping his jacket.

Chris smiled and butted his forehead against Tom’s temple.

“No, little fawn. I won’t get sick. I promise.”

He lifted Tom around the waist and sat him on his belly, Tom wrapping his legs around his back. Walking into the bedroom, Chris stumbled about, face uplifted for Tom’s kisses.

“No sheets, no sheets,” Tom gasped, pulling on his ears until Chris focused. The bed was still unmade, mattress bare and exposed.

Chris halted abruptly, turning on his heel and heading into the living room.

“Little lamb wants bed with sheets,” he murmured. “I give you wood and flame instead.”

He draped Tom on the rug before the fire, falling over him, burying him in kisses and bites, moaning into his neck, tasting his skin, wanting all that pale flesh to be bruised with only his marks, his claim. The room was cold despite the fire, and Tom shivered as Chris unbuttoned his shirt. It was Chris’s own shirt, borrowed and taken by Tom to keep. Tom’s warm sweat pants were yanked off first, leaving him completely bare, chills racing down his legs. Chris parted his shirt down the middle, kissing down his throat, over his chest and each nipple, making Tom gasp and arch, the sensitive little nubs hardening from the frigid air and Chris’s tongue. Lower he went, licking Tom’s belly, further down, mouthing at the soft trail of hair, burying his face in Tom’s groin and sniffing at the root of his cock.

Tom moaned and lifted his head, arms trapped in the sleeves of his shirt, pushed back over his shoulders trembling with every ragged breath. Chris held both wrists down, nosing along his sac, inhaling his scent, widening his mouth to taste the dripping tip.

Whining, face red, Tom dropped his head to the floor, the rug cushioning it softly. Chris’s mouth on him was hot and wet, sucking him hard, tongue reaching to stroke the thick vein running from root to tip. He couldn’t handle it, the ceiling spinning before his eyes, lashes trembling as he trembled, crying out softly, begging him, arching, arching.

“Chris!” he cried, feeling something sharp and thick begin to coil in his belly. He would come from this, much longer and he would come. He’d jerked himself off plenty of times, alone in his bed back home, mouth stuffed with pillow, and he knew when he was on the verge of release. But this was happening so quickly. No man, or woman, had ever touched him there, had never suckled at him like Chris was, moaning and lapping him up as if Tom was the best thing he’d ever tasted. Blue eyes on him, lashes fanning like fronds, Chris watched him writhe, watched the color flush his cheeks prettily, wanted him wrecked and destroyed like this always.

He popped off with a smile, Tom’s cock bobbing in the air, still hard and throbbing. Tom watched him crawl closer, blinked his eyes fast when Chris dipped his head to kiss him.

He tasted himself there, slightly bitter, not terrible, and he widened his lips for more, Chris’s tongue slipping in, nudging his.

Tom grabbed his head and deepened the kiss, Chris falling against him between his open legs, fully clothed still. It sent a thrill of wonder up Tom’s spine, to be made so vulnerable to this man, to finally give himself as he wanted, on his terms, without inhibitions, without judgment. And Chris was looking at Tom like he was the starry night itself.

Careful with his bandaged foot, Tom prodded Chris forward, squeezing him with his legs.

Voice hoarse, voice broken, he spoke his need.

“Please, Chris. Oh, my darling, please. Let me have you.”

Chris held himself up, arms bulging on either side of his head. Wisps of hair swung freely, and he peered down at Tom, eyes wide with relief.

“You have me, Tom. I’m yours.”

He bent and gave him a loud kiss on the mouth and then jumped up, tripping on the rug in his haste to get to the bedroom.

Tom leaned upon his elbows, half blind from desire. Chris disappeared for a moment and then hurried back with a small container in his hand. He was unscrewing the lid, dipping his fingers in.

“What is that?” Tom asked, darting his gaze from Chris’s fingers to the impressive bulge in his jeans.

“Lube,” Chris grunted, eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Y-you buy lube?” Tom had trouble imagining Chris down at the drugstore paying cash for something as private and intimate as lube.

“Make it myself.” Chris knelt between Tom’s legs and lowered his hand to finger Tom’s hole. Tom gasped and bucked up, chest tight.

“Make it—um, h-how do you make it?”

“Grinding down some herbs and plants. Sunflower petals, things like that. A little distillation. You’d be amazed how easy it is. I’ll show you.”

He stuck a finger in and Tom yelped, but the homemade lube eased the intrusion. Licking his lips, Chris watched his face, both thrown in a golden light from the fire, the flames cracking and warming them, making Tom feel wrapped in a blanket of heat, his own sun staring down at him.

And then his sun dipped low, pulling his finger out, head disappearing between Tom’s legs. Whining, Tom followed him with his eyes, afraid to lose sight of him, afraid he would disappear and Tom would wake up back in his stiff bed in London, another day of suffocating lessons and boring dinners ahead of him. But Chris didn’t disappear. He only closed his mouth over Tom’s hole and pressed his tongue in.

Tom’s entire spine stiffened, eyes widening in shock. Latching onto a fistful of Chris’s hair, he collapsed back and writhed over the rug as Chris anchored his hands over his hipbones and held him down.

“ _Chris_ , oh my God. Darling…don’t! Jesus… _fuck!_ _”_

Chris moaned, sucking and licking at him harder, burrowing his face in the core of him, taking Tom’s very heartbeat onto his tongue. He stayed pressed there for so long, Tom started up an inane babble, head lolling on the floor, legs weak so that Chris held him open with the wide span of his calloused palms. The minutes stretched long, and still Chris’s mouth and long tongue worked him open. Already near the edge from the heavy blowjob, Tom felt the spiral in his belly again, more pronounced and insistent when Chris pressed a finger into him, rimming at his entrance with his tongue.

“Chris,” he moaned, throat working as he struggled to breathe and swallow and whine low. “Chris, I’m…I’m—.”

Chris dug deeper, palming Tom’s flushed cock once before Tom was screaming, back bowed off the floor. Choking on his cries, he scrunched his eyes against the blinding spots of light bursting over his vision, his blood rising to the surface of his skin, coating it pink and warm. He pulsed and throbbed, spurts of hot cum falling over his stomach.

He was hardly coherent when Chris finally drew away, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He was grinning, Tom blinking up at him behind heavy lashes, breaths hoarse.

Hovering over him, Chris shoved in another finger, the stretch burning and shocking to Tom, even after his mouth and tongue. What Chris had just done…he’d never felt anything like it, never knew that such pleasure was possible. Growing up, he’d always only ever played with his cock, the voices of his mother and friends bleating through his mind about the filthy things gay men did to each other. Even then his touches were tentative and unsure, full of doubt and guilt, shame heating his face. Why hadn’t he waited? Waited for someone who would be gentler with him, more thorough. Why had he imagined that a quick fuck in a place as disgusting and public as a restroom would ever compare to soft caresses and shared embraces? To concern for comfort and pleasure, where they might look at each other’s faces, as he and Chris did now.

This is not filth, he thought, clasping the back of Chris’s head, staring deep into his eyes, wanting to memorize every shade of blue they were, their grunts and gasps like lit tinder in his chest.

Not filth, no.

This was spots of sunlight on a river, bursts of rainwater at dawn, blooming roses and dripping honeysuckle; this was hummingbird wings and viper strikes, lightning flashes and star constellations, sun rays and moon tides.

This was everything no one had ever wanted him to feel and experience, out of fear and revulsion out of jealousy, out of hatred. His mother and his friends would never know this, at least not in the way that he would know it, this small kernel of gold he felt digging into his heart, ready to take root and sprout in his ribcage, filling him with giant leaves and star-etched flowers.

He cupped Chris’s cheeks as a third finger squeezed in, wincing but holding eye contact, wanting him to know that every emotion, every gasp was Chris’s only, small gifts that showed his willingness, his desire to claim Chris as much as Chris would claim him that day.

Chris stared down at Tom’s stomach, rubbing it with his big hand, lashes fluttering as he spread his fingers wide. And then his eyes flicked up to Tom’s face, and his lips parted, as if to say something. But then he blushed and looked away, pressing his lips to Tom’s flat belly, moaning into his skin.

Slicking himself, Chris gathered Tom into his arms and crushed him to the floor, nudging his forehead and smothering him in lazy kisses.

And then he was pushing in and Tom seized, crying out, shaking his head and mumbling faintly. It hurt, the stretch so like what he’d felt before. But this wasn’t the same, he told himself. This was nothing like that restroom. This wasn’t Jonathan, back in that stall, who didn’t take the time to prepare Tom, like Chris just had, kissing him in places Tom never would have thought were appropriate, never would have thought would make him see the heavens.

“Shh, little fawn,” Chris whispered, smoothing a hand over Tom’s hair, gripping his skull and rocking in another terrifying inch.

Tom sobbed out, but Chris had a fever in his eye, as if Tom’s cries spurred him on, sinking deeper and deeper. Tom clawed at his back, cheek pressed to Chris’s face, chest constricted with his heavy weight. Chris snapped his hips faster, and Tom grunted through the first moments of pain, tilting his head into Chris’s neck to soak in his scent of sweat and snow.

“So good,” Chris groaned. “Such a tight little cunt you have.”

Tom blushed red, the roots of his hair feeling on fire.

Chris’s pupils blew at the sight, twin spots of black dwarfing the crystal of his eyes.

“There you are. There’s my lamb.” He bracketed Tom’s face, slowing his rhythm for a moment, peering down at him with eyes brimming with something that made butterflies alight in his stomach. “You’re so beautiful, Tom. I can’t believe I almost lost you to that storm. It won’t take you from me. It won’t.” He palmed Tom’s throat and planted a hand on the floor beside him. He plowed him hard and deep, Tom swaying under him.

“Fuck you…good and—and hard, didn’t I say…” He tossed his head back and groaned loudly, slamming in hard, once, twice, three times.

Tom flinched, but watched as if spellbound, as the veins in Chris’s neck popped out, all along his torso and lower belly standing thick and pulsing, his cock inside him throbbing and swelling and erupting.

Tom gasped, mouth parting, eyes rolling back as he felt a rush of hot cum spew deep within, gushing, streaming, never ending.

Chris held himself up on straining arms, bringing his face down, breathing ragged.

“Mine,” he whispered, and Tom nodded, lifting his chin for kisses.

Chris gave another violent shudder and then sagged against him, Tom wheezing as he took his weight. They kissed slowly, Tom’s legs numb, hip bones sore. But he laughed when Chris rubbed their noses together in an Eskimo kiss, giggled when Chris rasped his beard over the sensitive skin of his neck, and smiled _yes_ when Chris, with a tentative nudge, whispered again _mine?_

They dozed before the fire, sweat spotting their skin, Chris draped comfortably behind Tom, snuggling him to his chest. Tom closed his eyes for only a moment, head pillowed on Chris’s arm. He was jostled only a few minutes later, rolled onto his side, leg lifted by an iron grip.

Not entirely conscious, he protested faintly, voice low as Chris angled his cock into Tom’s entrance, pushing in with a frenzy.

Tom choked out a cry, back bending as Chris started a hard rhythm again, their skin slapping loudly and lewdly in the moist air within the cabin. Chris liked holding Tom by his throat, and he did so now, wrapping his hand around the front of his neck, holding his chin up so that Tom’s stomach and belly were stretched taut, his other hand holding Tom’s thigh up.

Growing hard despite his fatigue, Tom came on a particularly rough thrust, spilling violently over the rug, eyes rolling back as he went limp in Chris’s arms; Chris, who came only moments later, filled Tom up again, excess cum flowing out and between his buttocks.

Chris took Tom twice more that night, at least that’s what Tom remembered. He would sometimes wake and Chris would already be inside him. He positioned Tom on all fours and fucked into him with a growl, reminding Tom of dogs mating while in heat. Fingers digging into his hips, Chris bruised Tom and bit at him gently, his gaping hole filled to the brim. Cum poured out of him and he could do nothing to stop it, lying listless on the floor, panting and on the verge of passing out. When Chris took him again, rearing up over him like a stallion, mounting him like the first time, from above, Tom made a valiant effort to hold on, but his arms flopped down beside his head, and Chris took his wrists, telling his little fawn to stay with him just a bit longer, that he was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, that Chris would keep him forever.

Tom smiled, exhausted and sated, feeling as if, for the first time in a long time, he was home.

The morning dawned bright and early, and Tom realized almost immediately upon waking, that he would be spending the day on the floor. His legs were tingling and painfully sore, the apex of his thighs chafed red and slightly bruised. Bravely, he tried opening his legs and found the muscles uncooperative, locked and trembling. His skin was sticky with patches of old cum. He was covered in it, he mused, running the tips of his fingers down his belly, flakes tumbling to the floor in their wake. He found that he rather liked being covered in the evidence of his and Chris’s release, that they shared in this magnificent physical experience together, that he felt seen and possessed in a way that didn’t belittle or devastate him in guilt and misery.

Chris was snoring lightly at his back, and Tom elbowed him weakly.

"Hmph? What is it?" Chris's blond head poked over his shoulder, eyes bleary.

Tom cleared his throat, lined with cotton. "You'll need to carry me to the bath."

Eyes narrowed in concern, Chris rolled him onto his back. "Are you okay, little bug? Was I terrible? Did I hurt you?"

Tom shook his head. "No, darling. Only in the best way." He cupped Chris's cheek, stroking the coarse hairs of his beard. "Thank you for that, darling."

Chris scrunched his brows. "For what, little flower?"

Tom shrugged and his eyes dropped, blushing again. "For showing me, I guess. I'd...well, I'd never done any of that before. Not really."

Chris kissed his nose, skimming his lips down Tom's jaw and pecking at his neck. A rush of emotion swept through Tom and his cock gave a weak twitch of interest. Chris, he could feel against his thigh, was hard again.

The stamina on the man was astounding.

"I wasn’t your first?"

Tom dropped his eyes, and shook his head. “Not technically.”

"It doesn’t matter, then,” Chris whispered. “You're my little fawn now."

“I wasn’t before?”

“You most certainly were.”

"Well, your little fawn needs to soak in a hot bath. Immediately."

Chris chuckled and climbed to his feet, his erection bobbing in front. Tom was half relieved that he didn't try to push into him again. Tom didn't think his body could handle it. He would be ridiculously, deliciously sore for days to come.

Chris got a fire going quickly, dumping buckets of boiling water into the wooden tub down the hall. Tom lay on the rug and watched him move about, humming under his breath, long hair falling over his face. He caressed his ankle as he walked past, smiling up at him through his lashes.

Once the water was ready, temperature evened out with half a bucket of snow, he stooped and picked Tom up in his arms. Tom groaned from the pain, his muscles pulling tight, his groin a throbbing ache.

Chris bathed him slowly, running a warm cloth up his belly and chest, cleaning between his legs, stroking down his thighs. It was so vastly different a bath than the first one Tom had experienced in the cabin, cowering in fear, near death. If he had to guess, he would say that maybe two weeks had passed since that night he almost froze in the woods. It was hard to tell, considering he was unconscious for the better part of the first half of his stay with Chris. Only the day before Chris had murmured over his coffee mug, staring out the kitchen window, something about the roads being passable again soon. Debris and clutter would need to be removed, but soon Chris would be able to run errands into town, getting more groceries since they were running low, buying more ammo and the like.

“How do you feel?”

Tom’s eyes blinked open at the low voice. Chris reclined his head on the edge of the tub, running the cloth over Tom’s neck, watching him quietly.

Tom slid over in the tub and mirrored Chris’s pose, leaning his head on the tub. “Hmm?”

“Still sore?”

“Mm, yeah. That won’t change for a few days.”

Chris grinned, the sound of dripping water echoing loudly in the room. “I’ll leave you be, then. For a bit.”

“Don’t,” Tom whispered, dragging a wet hand over Chris’s hair, hearing the contented purr from deep in his chest.

“I won’t, sunflower,” Chris whispered, and he smiled into his arm, shy like a boy.

“Thank you for telling me about your family. Not having anyone to talk to…I can certainly empathize with that.”

Blue eyes flitted over his face, settling finally on his mouth. Tom pursed his lips and fidgeted under that gaze.

“Tell me,” Chris whispered, and Tom felt his cheeks flame the way they did when he felt backed into a corner.

“Tell you what?”he fronted, eyes on the water.

“You're keeping something from me. You always look away when you don’t want to tell me something.”

Tom snapped his gaze to Chris, defiant. “I do not.”

Chris smiled. “You do, too.”

Huffing, Tom snuggled against the smooth wood of the tub, letting Chris massage the towel into his neck.

With a small sigh, he started.

“On my mother’s side, there is a line to the royal family. It’s so remote, so far removed it shouldn’t even be worth mentioning. But my mother has it in her head that we are relevant in some way to the more recognizable royals, and is always on some crusade to get us closer to the throne. It’s…it’s beyond _pointless._ ”He shook his head with a frown. “Regardless, my sisters and I were brought up a certain way. Etiquette lessons, piano lessons, geography lessons, dance lessons. Lessons for the most mundane and archaic things, Chris. They started to wear on me. My sisters were so much better at them. They had my mother’s affection in a way that I didn’t. And I think it was only because my father, when he was alive, showed me his above all others.”

He swallowed and scooted closer to Chris, resting his head on his forearm.

“He died of cancer when I was eleven. Our schedules and training and lessons got worse, and I got through my teenage years with a gnawing sense of rebellion I couldn’t name. I felt adrift, anchored to the earth by the restrictions my mother placed on me, by jealousy of my sisters, by the feelings I was starting to harbor and couldn’t understand, by my immense loneliness. Something must have shown because my mother started this incessant diatribe about the evils and filths of same sex relationships, going on and on about my duty to the family and that in college I would study law and intern at a big firm and not disappoint her like my father did.”

His jaw clenched and he closed his eyes. Chris’s hand cupped the back of his head, and Tom felt the tight ribbon of anxiety in his ribs loosen slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Thoughts of my mother always set me on edge.”

“You escaped them,”Chris said, eyes crinkling in understanding.

“I did.”

Briefly, he told Chris about his aunt’s house in the north country, how when he felt the most stifled by his mother and yapping sisters, he would retreat there, sitting under the grand maple that towered in her back yard. Running with her old golden lab through the flower fields, walking with her to the river and setting up their picnic blanket and snacks as she tousled his hair affectionately and gossiped about that ‘stuck up sister of hers’and her ‘dawdling daughters’.

“’You are most like your father,’she would tell me. And it was in those years that I started to understand that maybe she’d been in love with him.” He shrugged. “When she died the year I turned nineteen, I was devastated. Her house was claimed by the government as some kind of historical site. Even though she left it to me, bless her. And my mother wasn’t about to hire lawyers to defend my claim to it. But the inheritance my aunt left for me…I was ecstatic. I thought to myself, now I can really remove myself from this life, start somewhere new. The whole thing really surprised her, my mother. I can’t imagine she believed my friendship with my aunt Margaret was anything special. Just like what she thought— _thinks_ —of everything about me, I suppose.”

Chris murmured his disagreement, gently, nuzzling his temple. Tom smiled and nuzzled back, feeling his heart bloom in his chest.

He explained about his semi-disingenuous friendship with the family lawyer’s son.

“It started innocently enough, going to the movies, hanging out on the weekends. But closer to the end, I realized I could use him to help myself leave. I felt terrible about it for about a minute, before remembering all the times he'd joked about homosexuals and their hilarious position in society. I was always invited to dinner at their house, lasting hours, full of boring discussions of politics and the working class. Deplorable. When I found out about my mother holding my inheritance until I was twenty one, well, I started to panic. It was like she sniffed out my plans, could see the wheels in my head turning, intent on leaving her. And so one evening when I was at the lawyer’s house for dinner, I excused myself to the loo and hacked into his computer. I don’t mean to boast, but I’m rather good with computers, and it was easier than I thought, considering his stupid password was 1234.”

He scoffed, smiling up at the ceiling. “He was old and decrepit. A servant to my mother’s whims. Anyway, I bailed my afternoon lesson and escaped to the bank, where I converted most of the money into traveler’s checks, keeping some in bills. The taxi ride to the airport was terrifying. I kept expecting the men my mother hires to drive us about to show up and drag me back home. Like…like the mafia or something. I thought I would try to throw her off my scent by flying into the States first, and then moving on to wherever the wind took me. I had my passport and everything. I was going to do this. And I did, sleeping not a wink on the entire flight over the Atlantic. It was freezing when I landed in Michigan, and I was so poorly attired I bought myself some clothes at a gift store. Cheap stuff. Which you happened to cut away the night we met.” Chris ducked his head and apologized under his breath, and then they laughed, the water rippling around Tom’s body.

“I feel I’ll never be rid of her. She’s a greatly jealous and possessive woman. I was hers to command and mold into some perfect robot that handled the family affairs while my sisters schemed to marry into the royals. She would never have let me go on her own choice. I had to leave. Or else live out a miserable life with a woman I didn’t like or love, forced to have kids before I wanted them. I’m only twenty! Can you imagine me with children?”

Chris smiled and stroked his cheekbone. “I can see this pretty face flushed from pregnancy, yes.”His hand drifted lower and into the water, settling warmly on Tom’s flat stomach. “This belly round with child. My child.”

A shaky moan slipped from Tom’s mouth before he could stop himself. He stared at Chris, and then laughed a little nervously, licking his lips, and looking down.

“Stop,” he whispered, and then admitted with a small shrug, “Actually, it doesn’t sound so bad when you say it like that.”

Chris’s eyes widened slightly and then he grinned and laughed with his head dipped low, the sound rumbling through the warm room.

“You don’t…you don’t think she’ll come after me, do you? All this way? I had to use my real name to book my flight, but once I got to Michigan, I threw my phone away and boarded the bus into Canada. I thought I could disappear.” His voice shifted as his panic grew, and he inched closer to Chris, curling his fingers into his hair. “But I took the money that was mine, Chris. And I know she wanted it. Wanted it for advancing herself and my sisters. But my aunt gave it to me. It was mine, Chris. Do you think I did right?”

Chris straightened and pulled Tom into his arms, the stiff side of the bathtub the only thing separating them. Tom clutched at him, burying his face in his neck, shaking with renewed fear at this great sequence of events he’d set into motion with simply demanding the unimpeachable right to be free.

“None of that, little bug,” he said, voice slightly rough. He rubbed Tom’s thin back, wanting to calm him and reassure him. “You did the right thing seeking your own way. Escaping that life. I’m not sure what kind of resources your mother has, but I can tell you one thing, little flower.” He drew back and looked Tom in the eye, saw the swimming tears there, felt a resolve grow in his chest to protect this boy. “She or any of the people she might send after you will not take you from me. Do you understand?”

Tom nodded fast, sitting up in the tub. His bottom ached and he squirmed on his seat, wishing his mother could see him now, happy and without reserve.

He leaned forward and kissed Chris, both inhaling at the touch.

“Thank you,” he breathed, and Chris, in all the wisdom taught him by the forest and mountain, smiled and hugged him closer.

**

They slept most of the day. After his bath, Chris carried Tom back to the living room, snug in a warm jumper and sweat pants, wool socks on his feet. His legs were too cramped to walk, feeling bowlegged and stiff. From his cocoon of blankets, he watched as Chris went up and down the hall, washing the clothes again since they’d been distracted for a few hours the day before. He watched as Chris strung the damp clothes over the fire, turning them every twenty minutes until they were dry. He folded them carefully and put them away, and Tom thought that it would be nice to hang clothes out to dry in the spring, when the garments would saturate with the scents of grass and flower blossoms.

As promised, Chris did leave him alone for a full day, letting Tom recover from their marathon fuck session by the fire. He settled for spinning Tom and crowding him against the kitchen counter, kissing him hard and cupping his ass, rolling Tom forward so their hips were flush, erections moving solidly together through jeans and cotton.

New bruises and love bites appeared like dark blooms on Tom's skin, and he touched and prodded at them in the early hours of morning, when Chris was folded tightly around his back and specks of sunlight dotted the wooden figurines on the windowsill.

His foot was healing at a remarkable speed, the wounds completely scabbed over and shrinking by the day. He didn't need to wear a bandage anymore, but Chris still massaged salve into his skin, humming as he kneaded at the sore muscles. Sometimes, when Chris was outside, mending a fence post or hammering a crooked nail into place, Tom would sit on the porch and stare at the tree line. There were so many of them, bordering Chris's yard in thick clusters, the depths of the forest shadowed and indiscernible. There was something strange and greatly mysterious, enchanting even, about the woods and the relationship Chris seemed to have with it. The situation with the birds and the moose still popped into Tom's thoughts every now and then, and the more he took the time to look around he noticed the lively presence of wild life. Squirrels and white-tailed foxes sprinted in and out of the yard on a regular basis, often catching sight of them through the kitchen window as he washed the dishes. He spotted the wide rack of an elk's antlers roving through the forest, its great bulk only a dim shadow among the trees, before he ducked away with a nervous whine. Limping down the porch steps one morning carrying a wicker basket to collect the herbs Chris had left to dry in the sun, he paused by the water well, eyes on the snow-covered ground. A mashed and overlapping trail of giant paw prints circled the well and headed off through the middle of the yard into the woods. Tom wasn’t sure what they could belong to other than an enormous animal with claws. Like an enormous wildcat, or even a bear. They looked fresh enough to send him scurrying back inside, peeking out through the front curtains, spotting nothing in the freezing morning air. 

Chris often disappeared into his father's shed in the backyard, working steadily through the day, coming in only to cook something up for the both of them, meats and potatoes and baked apples and roasted almonds with raw vegetables, few in the winter. But his gardens would burst with fruits and vegetables in the spring, Chris reassured him, squeezing his ear affectionately at the table.

"I'll fatten you up yet, little fawn. With food, or with child." He would wink at Tom, who blushed and lowered his gaze, unable to stop the grin from spreading over his face.

"Too bad my metabolism is so fast. I burn through everything almost immediately."

Chris patted his thigh and Tom rose to sit on his lap. He pressed a warm hand to Tom’s belly.

"With child then."

They kissed into their giggles, Tom sitting higher on his waist to feel Chris's erection.

Tom was scratching around his scabs one evening when Chris came in from outside with an excited, but shy grin. He held his dark cap in his hands, turning it in nervous circles. His hair was mashed down around his ears, curving out from under where the cap lay.

"I wanna show you something."

Tom wiped his hands on a towel, limping out to meet him at the door.

"What is it?"

Chris held his hand out. "It's for you. C'mon."

Tom took his hand and followed him out. On the porch next to Chris's own was another rocking chair, brand new and freshly varnished, shining and bright compared to Chris's well-used rocker.

Tom's mouth dropped open. "This...this is for me?"

Chris tailed him, wringing his hat in his hands. "Do you like it?"

Stunned, Tom could only stare at the chair. Dark brown, like the honey Chris made himself and kept in large jars in the pantry. The chair was sturdy and creak-less, and Tom ran a hand over the back of it, onto which was etched small images: hummingbirds suckling at flowers drooping with nectar, a group of tall sunflowers, one whose heavy drooping head was being nuzzled by a small, rump-spotted fawn, all enclosed with a border of crawling lady bugs. These carvings must have taken hours of dedication, loving, loving dedication.

"Chris...I _love_ it."

Chris's face collapsed in relief, shoulders sagging with pleasure.

"This is what you've been working on back there?" he asked, sinking down into the rocker, holding his weight tentatively on the armrests. But it was built strong, and held him with ease.

Nodding sheepishly, Chris sat in his own chair, body turned to Tom, as if wanting to memorize every detail of his reaction. Tom didn't disappoint, running his hands over the gleaming wood, face bright with gratitude and awe.

"It's beautiful," Tom said. "Darling, you've created a masterpiece."

Chris brushed that aside, and touched Tom's wrist. "You're beautiful, Tom. And you look beautiful sitting in it."

Tom turned to him, voice lifting in excitement. "Does this mean we can sit out here together?" Usually it was always one or the other who sat outside, the other standing by the rail, looking out into the woods.

They stared at each other and then burst into motion.

"I'll make us something warm to drink," Chris said as Tom yelled, "I've got the blankets!"

They settled into their chairs minutes later, two mugs of hot chocolate and blankets wrapped around their shoulders and legs. Arranging the rockers within a millimeter of each other, Chris took Tom's hand and held it on the brushing armrests. Out under the canopy of trees, the lights had started to buzz about, twinkling in the dark, floating and blinking in and out.

“But what are they?” Tom asked, wondering if he should even ask.

“I’ve never known. When I was younger and alone on this mountain, when the cabin was half built and I was shivering in the shed, I would see them through the cracks in the walls. I would see them hovering out in the trees. I thought maybe they were fireflies. But when I finally gathered the courage to go out and see for myself, they would dart away, up into the leaves or even dive into the snow. Like they were playing with me.”

“Have you ever…seen anything…slinking about?” Tom asked tentatively, wondering if he sounded crazy. But he knew what he saw that day he was caught in the animal trap. He might have been delirious with pain and fever, but he knew.

Chris, stroking his wrist and taking a sip of the chocolate murmured only, simply, “Yes.”

Tom stared at him until Chris turned to him. He shrugged. “I was scared of it at first. I was alone. I was in my teens. The nights up here are terribly dark, and I spent many of them burning precious oil because I was too afraid. But whatever’s out there hasn’t hurt me, and I’ve grown used to the nights alone over the years. Maybe it protects me. Watches over me. Who knows.” He leaned his head back. “My mother called them ‘the fairies’. But it hardly matters to me, if they are harmless.”

Tom snaked his arm under Chris’s elbow and cuddled against his shoulder.

“If you’re not afraid, I won’t be afraid.”

Chris smiled and tucked the blanket around him better. They sat quietly, rocking on the dusty floorboards, a soft flurry of snow drifting to the earth.

"It's gone already," Chris murmured, and Tom hummed in question. "I left a new carving on the rail. And it's gone already."

"Do they usually disappear?"

"Yes. I never catch when it happens."

Tom worried at his lip, eyes flicking over the darkening yard. And then he sat up. "Look over there.” He pointed to a corner of the yard. There was movement low to the ground, and they sat frozen, watching something hop about in a patch of grass not covered with snow.

"Stay here," Chris murmured, taking his shotgun from the corner of the porch and heading down the steps. Tom tossed away the blanket and clambered inside to slip into a pair of Chris's boots. He hurried after him and snaked a hand around his elbow, catching his breath from the short run. His foot throbbed, and he limped to ease it. Chris had his eyes narrowed on the ground ahead, still too far to see what was moving around. Angling behind him, Tom peeked over his shoulder, but the evening was deepening quickly, and they were too far from the light cast by the oil lamp on the porch rail. Tom realized he should have brought it with him when he followed Chris into the dark.

The thing on the ground burst into flight suddenly, startling Tom. He screamed and ducked behind Chris, who had his shotgun up already, barrel aimed at the tree in front of them. A flurry of twittering started just then, and they frowned, looking at each other in confusion. Birds had been hopping along the ground?

Stepping up to the tree, they craned their heads and peered high. There, in the crook of two branches, was a birds nest, nettles and twigs and dead grass all clumped together. But poking out from the bottom, hoof lifted in mid-prance, was one of Chris's carvings, the dancing horse.

The whole interior of the forest came alive with bird chatter suddenly, like the stuttered bursts of static on an old radio, turning the dial to find a clear station. There were birds nests in every other tree, and the closer they squinted, the more they were able to see that each nest had one of Chris's wooden carvings tucked into the thick of it, the birds hopping along the branches, angling their curious little heads down at them.

Tom and Chris stood mute on the ground, eyes on the trees, all shotgun and linked fingers, breaths misting out before them in clouds of white.

**

"What do you think it means?"

Chris slid his mouth lower on his neck and Tom arched, presenting his nipples. Chris latched onto one and Tom gasped, lifting his hips from the bed, Chris snug between his legs.

"They've been taking my things to make their nests," Chris mumbled, licking at the tight little nub, closing his lips over it and pinching. Tom whined and tugged on his wrists, but Chris kept them tight in one fist over Tom's head, and he collapsed back with a frustrated moan.

"But...they all had one—."

Chris bit at his nipple and growled. Tom fell silent.

"Okay, sorry," he whispered, lifting his chin when Chris hovered closer to kiss him.

He took Tom three times that night, each time with more fervor than the last, rutting hard into him, pressing him flat to the mattress, a fist in his hair and a hand at his throat, loving kisses all over his face. He always recovered so quickly, mounting Tom over and over in record speed and Tom, dazed and pliant, moved happily with him, their bodies writhing to meet their finish. Tom came more than once, more than a hundred times, he wasn't sure, but he fell into the most sated doze, sleeping through the morning, all thoughts of birds and tiny wooden figurines forgotten.

When he woke, cold gray light was streaming in behind the curtains in the back hallway, crossing over his face, blinding him. Scrunching his eyes, Tom blinked around. He was lying on his side just outside Chris’s back room, the one where he butchered all his kills. He rolled and leaned up on his elbow, noting that he was naked and freezing again.

“Chris?” he rasped, but heard nothing. How had he gotten to the back hallway, fallen asleep there? Where was Chris? He winced as he sat up, his bottom giving a twinge of pain, still sore from the night before. Chris’s size and Tom’s only recently growing experience proved to be a slow burn, a delicious pain he didn’t mind bearing in the least. Climbing to his feet, he limped down the hall, trailing a hand on the wall. The bedroom was empty, the bed sheets mussed. Frowning, he touched the pillows gently, knowing that if he bent to sniff at the soft cloth he would smell both their scents there.

Something bumped outside the window and he jumped, turning to the wall. He threw on Chris’s robe and hurried into the main room. Peering out the front window, he finally saw with his own eyes what he’d always suspected had been lingering around the cabin.

A bear of light brown fur was sniffing around the edge of the well, a great beast nearly six feet long that rooted at the ground with its massive paws crowned with sharp black claws. Tom gasped and jumped back, feet tangling on a lifted corner of the rug. He fell against the back of the sofa, grabbing on and steadying himself, eyes wide on the animal outside. It was huge, no doubt reaching over eight feet when standing on its hind legs, but for now seemed content to nose along the ground, the very spot Tom had stood in only days before with his wicker basket.

“Chris,” he gasped, knowing that if he wasn’t inside the cabin, then he was most definitely somewhere outside within reach of this beast who could maul him and tear him in two.

But at his panicked gasp, the bear lifted its head and stared right at him through the front window. And Tom wasn’t sure if it was the way the sun was angled in the sky, but from where he stood the bear’s eyes appeared blue, small and beady, but blue all the same.

Tom spun on his heel and fled to the bedroom, throwing himself on the bed and pulling the blankets over him like a canopy. Pressed up against the headboard, he peered over the edge of the blanket, eyes on the doorway, listening for any threatening sounds from outside. Time passed and still he waited, trembling and drawing as close to himself as possible. Eventually the front door opened and shuffled, uneven steps sounded in the hall. When Chris appeared in the doorway, bleary eyed and swaying on his feet, Tom leapt from the bed and into his arms, babbling about what he’d seen, how nervous he’d been.

“A bear?” Chris murmured, nose behind Tom’s ear. He was naked, feet dirty, and Tom let his eyes drift down his body before snapping back up to his face.

“A bear, Chris. A great big one. It was out by the well.”

Chris’s eyes were drooping and Tom led him to the bed, concerned.

“They live around here, is all. We’re bound to run into one from time to time.” Chris lay back on the pillows, dragging Tom with him. Tom found himself clasped to Chris’s chest, Chris snoring lightly at his neck. He lay thinking for a long time. The birds nests with the wooden figurines, the animal tracks and active animal presence around the cabin. Something wasn’t adding up, and he couldn’t quite figure it out before finally giving in to his bone-deep fatigue and following Chris into sleep.

**

Days passed.

Chris had been on edge all morning. He’d woken with a start, sweat beading his brow, a hand on Tom’s chest, eyes narrowed on the room, crouching over him as if to ward off a threat.

“Darling?” Tom whispered, afraid to move, afraid to spook him.

Chris snapped his head around and Tom gasped. Chris was scowling, still caught in whatever he’d been dreaming about, still perched over him protectively.

“Darling,” he whispered again, cupping Chris’s face slowly, wanting to bring him round. Chris blinked and his eyes slowly cleared.

“Little fawn?”

“Yes, Chris. It’s me.”

Chris moaned and fell over him, taking his lips roughly, kissing him hard. Their limbs wrapped around each other, and Chris bullied his legs apart. Tom cried out as he pushed inside, still slick and slightly loose from the night before. But the stretch still burned, feeling Chris’s length press up into his throat.

He arched and squeezed Chris’s hips with his thighs, sore and trembling, bearing fresh bruises and bite marks.

Chris thrust and growled above him, palming the back of his neck, his other hand pressed to the flat of Tom’s belly.

“Fill me,” Tom whispered, voice heavy. “Fill me up, my darling. Make me big. Make me round with your child.”

Chris squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, fingers tightening over his stomach. “Fuck,” he ground out, ramming into him harder, balls deep.

“Take it,” he rasped, faces an inch apart. “Please take it. I want you heavy with it.”

Tom nodded and whined, lifting his chin for kisses.

They fell into their frantic coupling, skin slapping, moans filling the cold room. Tom finally burst, spilling over his chest, neck arched back. Chris latched on and bit into his skin, snarling as he thrust once more and swelled inside Tom, releasing hard, copiously. He shuddered and stuttered his hips, trying to get his seed as deep as possible.

Tom lay spent, panting in his daze. Chris trailed his lips up his jaw and kissed him gently, their tongues brushing languidly. Tom breathed him in, fingers curling in his long hair, Chris still snug inside him, only half hard.

Their desire for each other was beyond anything that Tom might have hoped for in a partner. It was so palpable, that simply walking into a room Chris was in, or with only Chris laying eyes on him after being apart for more than a few moments, was enough to make Chris instantly hard and herding him into a corner for a quick fumble. 

Tom smiled and gave Chris a gentle squeeze, adoring the swell of muscle on him.

But the rest of the day had passed in a faint tension, Chris retreating outside to work on his chores. Tom watched him from the window as Chris split piece of wood after piece of wood, sweat staining his jean shirt, puffs of white breaths blowing out in front of him. Several times during the morning, he dropped the axe and turned to the far tree line, hand on his hips, as if waiting for something. When nothing happened, he would pick up the axe again and continue.

Tom kept a cautious distance from him, but it was Chris who would reach for him in passing, grabbing him around the waist, sniffing at his hair, slapping his bottom playfully as he went on his way. When Tom asked if everything was alright, Chris would shrug and look out the window, the trees shifting gently in the cold breeze.

Evening fell.

Tom was folding clothes by the fire when Chris came storming out of the back room wearing his boots and jacket. In one hand he had an axe, and in the other his shotgun.

“What’s happening?” Tom said, springing up. Chris bent to kiss his cheek.

“Get into the room. Stay there. You don’t come out, understand?”

Tom nodded. Chris slipped out the door and closed it behind him.

Tom dropped the laundry and hurried to the bedroom, kneeling on the bed to look out the window. Outside, Chris had started a fire in the pit in the front yard, letting it grow big, contained by a ring of stones. He squatted by it, stoking it with a long stick, face clouded by something he couldn’t recognize. It reminded him of the look Chris had given him the night Tom broke into his cabin, full of worry and barely concealed distrust.

It was an hour later that Tom heard the chatter of birds. Loud and twittering, they sang out of sight from somewhere in the trees, and Chris stood from his crouch, turning to face the edge of his yard.

As Tom strained to see, peering into the dark, he started to make out the flickering glow of light. At first he thought it was the twinkling lights that so often illuminated his and Chris’s nights here in the woods, but it started to grow bigger, this glow, looming closer through the trees.

“Someone’s coming,” he whispered to himself, shifting closer to the window, his eyes on the lone figure of Chris standing before the fire. Chris had sensed this. He had known something was on its way to their home. He had known.

A group of six men stepped into the clearing, all bundled in jeans and coats, each carrying a weapon of some kind. A bat. A long metal pipe. A hammer. A knife. A gun. An actual pitchfork. With his heart in his throat, he saw these men approach Chris across his yard, saw them glance at each other, for courage, for approval of whatever act they had gathered to commit.

And Chris waited, his shotgun in one hand, his axe in the other.

“You!” One of the men shouted, pointing his bat at Chris. “We’re here to deal with you! Demon!”

Chris shifted on his feet, saying nothing.

The men stopped a few yards away, half circling around Chris.

“You were the one that did it,” the first man said, their apparent leader. “The storm. You knew it was coming. You knew what it would do. You were the one who brought it down on us!”

The other men murmured, fingers clenching on their weapons.

Still, Chris stared, quietly.

“It killed Mitchell and Bethany. Collapsed their roof into their home! You KNEW!”

“And you need to be stopped,” another man said. “Living up here in seclusion, obviously some kind of _beast_!”

“Fucking the moose, are ya? Drinking the blood of innocents?”

The others cheered him on.

“William said a boy came up the mountain headed for the inn. But the owner said he never made it. No one’s stayin’ there. You probably killed him and strung him up somewhere to bleed out. Didn’t you?!”

From where Tom sat balled up by the window, the firelight cast Chris’s face in dancing shadows, but he still saw his jaw clench, grip tightening on his axe.

Chris whispered something Tom couldn’t catch, and the first man laughed.

“This may be your property, but Mitchell and Bethany were our own! You killed them with your witchcraft. And we’re here to take your life for theirs.”

“Yeah. Because you’re a beast. Probably killed your own family, didn’t you? Struck them up in flames? We all saw the blaze, you monster!”

Chris burst into motion, running at the first man and swinging his shotgun in a wide arc. The butt caught the man under the chin, snapping his head back. He collapsed to the ground, motionless. Chris spun and lifted the handle of the axe, cracking it forward on another man’s nose. He screamed and grabbed his face, blood pouring from between his fingers. The others finally jumped into the fray, caught by surprise at Chris’s lightning quick reaction.

Four men fell on Chris, one cocking his gun and trying to aim at his head. Tom gasped and screamed Chris’s name, but none heard him.

Screaming, Chris launched on the man with the gun, tackling him to the ground and straddling his chest. He punched him twice, hard and the man went limp. The other three dragged Chris off and started kicking his back, his stomach, one landing a solid punch to his face.

“No!” Tom pounded on the window. He wanted to run out there, wanted to help Chris, but Chris had told him to stay inside, and he would listen. He would.

Hand scrabbling for his axe, Chris finally grabbed it off the ground and brought it down hard, embedding the blade into the meat of the man’s thigh, yanking it out again. A curdling scream sent the birds in the trees into startled flight. Jumping to a squat, Chris snarled up at the two remaining men, springing on one, his weight tossing them to the ground. Kicking to his feet, a hand around the man’s throat, Chris squeezed and the man’s face turned bright red. He finally kneed him in the groin before lifting him off the ground and hurling him across the yard. The man landed in a twisted heap, curling into himself, moaning in pain.

Chris snatched his shotgun off the ground and aimed it at the last of them.

Only a kid really, the guy had his hands up, eyes wide on the others sprawled around him. Dropping his knife, he shook his head at Chris, babbling something Tom couldn’t hear.

“Get the fuck off my property,” Chris growled. He gestured with the barrel. “Go on.”

The man with the broken nose struggled to his feet, bringing out a knife from his boot. Chris turned on him and cocked the shotgun.

“Don’t think I won’t do it. You say I’m a killer. I’ll prove it with you. Send your friends back to your shit town with your brains splattered on ‘em.”

They stared at each other for long moments, breathing hard, plumes of white in the air. The young boy finally squatted next to the leader and tried to lift him. Spitting at Chris’s feet, the one with the broken nose turned from him and bent to help the boy. Slowly, all six of the men limped out of Chris’s yard, disappearing into the dark woods. Chris trailed them to the edge, gun aimed at their backs. When they were gone, he dropped the barrel and stood swaying, taking two small side steps before collapsing to the ground.

Tom gasped and jumped from the bed, running through the cabin and out the front door. He loped clumsily across the yard, the freezing snow and aching foot hindering him in the bright glare of the fire.

“Chris!” He dropped down beside him, eyes wide on his wounds. He was bleeding from a cut on his brow and his lip was split. His shirt was torn and Tom could see bruises forming on the skin of his ribs.

“Oh darling, no.”

“Little fawn,” Chris murmured, and Tom sobbed, cupping his face, wiping the dirt from his cheeks.

With his help, Chris got to his feet, Tom nearly buckling under his weight. They limped into the house and Tom bolted the door before leading him to the bathroom. Chris was able to remove his clothes while Tom boiled water, evening the temperature with snow, like Chris had taught him.

Chris sank into the tub, arms trembling to support his weight, groaning when the hot water swallowed him in. He rested back against the edge, big arms bracketing the sides, eyes bleary on the ceiling. Tom turned on the space heater and dragged the stool close. Like a moth to a flame, Tom sat next to him, cradling his head, smoothing his brow and running his fingers through his hair. Chris moaned and turned into his chest, murmuring if he has all right.

Tom laughed, a little sadly, tears blurring his sight. Chris cracked an eye open, so crystal blue that Tom paused, blinking down at him. There was something so familiar about that color, something that reminded him of the sky and…and… _something._ He couldn’t remember what. But it felt like home, nevertheless.

Slowly, he cleaned his face with a cloth, dragging it carefully down his torso, which was darkening with mottled bruises. Chris winced and gripped the edge of the tub.

“Shh, my love,” Tom whispered, patting his head. “I’ll take care of you. Don’t move.”

Chris pressed his forehead to Tom’s chest, his whisper heavy in the fogged room.

“You love me.”

Tom kissed his brow, dabbing at the blood on his cheek. “I do.”

And Chris, half-conscious and sweating, smiled as he fell asleep.

**

Chris stayed in bed for two days. He slept and recovered from his fight with the men, often mumbling in his sleep and clutching Tom to him.

“You’ll stay?” he whispered one night, big hands on Tom’s face, breath warm on his lips. “Will you stay with me?”

Tom, knowing he wasn’t asking him to merely stay by his side while he slept that night, nodded and kissed him fast. “Yes, darling. Yes, my love. I’ll stay.”

Chris inhaled and returned the kiss, and with their cheeks pressed together, Tom tasted Chris’s tears.

Twice more Tom went to sleep in bed with him and woke up somewhere else in the cabin. Disoriented and dazed, Tom returned to Chris’s side under the covers, confusion and exhaustion battling over his mind.

Chris rose from bed on the fourth day, shrugging into a shirt and jeans, swinging on his jacket. He went out front to clean the fire pit and pick up the weapons left behind by the men and tossing them into a burlap bag. Tom joined him as he went into the woods, hands clasped, peering around at the trees towering over them. He hardly limped anymore, the wounds on his foot closed and shrunken to dime-sized scars. With Chris beside him, his fear of the place diminished greatly, and he was able to see the great beauty of the firs and the evergreens, the snow sprinkling from their green spindles, the birds hopping along the branches after them.

They found a creek that bubbled along a jutted crag in the earth, and it was there that Chris tossed the weapons. One by one they sank through the water, settling gently against the pebbled bottom.

Tom hugged Chris’s arm and leaned on his shoulder.

“You ready, little fawn?”

“Yes, love.”

Picking their way through the trees, they returned to their cabin, where they settled on their rocking chairs and waited for the sun to set.

**

Just as they were settling into their cozy routine again, just when Tom thought that he might actually be successful in disappearing into this life with Chris, far from the reach of his mother and her determination to mold him into her puppet, there was a knock on the door.

Tom was in the back room peeling potatoes as Chris skinned another batch of rabbits. Whey they heard the knocks, they both froze, glancing at each other.

“Who do you think it is?” Tom whispered as they headed down the hall. But one peek out the front curtains and his blood ran cold.

“Shit!” he whispered, hands trembling. “It’s them. It’s them. My mother’s men. The men I always knew she’d send for me.”

“Shh, little fawn,” Chris whispered, taking his arms and guiding him back to the bedroom. Another loud knock and Tom jumped, throwing his arms around Chris. “What did I say, Tom? When you first told me your story? What did I say if someone came looking for you?”

Tom closed his eyes tightly. “That they wouldn’t take me from you.”

“That’s right. Now wait here. Don’t make a sound, little bug. Nice and quiet.”

Blinking away tears, Tom nodded, letting his fingers trail over Chris’s arms as he turned and left the room. Scrambling to the window, Tom watched as Chris opened the door and stepped onto the porch, shotgun in hand.

He recognized the two men as Everett and Dean, the men his mother trusted the most. How had they found him? All this way into the Canadian wilderness?

He gulped and hunkered down, keeping quiet.

“What do you want?” Chris asked, resting the shotgun casually on his shoulder. Everett and Dean looked at each other, both in heavy leather jackets and scarves. Double footprints trailed through the yard from the line of trees.

They introduced themselves.

“How are you, lad?”

“Busy. State your business or get off my land.”

Everett held his hands up and laughed easily. “Hold on, now. We’re terribly sorry to bother you, sir. But we’re looking for someone.”

“Yeah.” Chris sounded mightily uninterested.

“The folks in town seem to be under the impression that you might have had a run in with him. Have you seen this boy?” He pulled something from his breast pocket and passed it to Chris.

Chris looked at the picture before flicking it to the floor. When Dean tried to pick it up, Chris stepped over the picture and brought down his shotgun, cradling it in his hands. Dean took the hint and backed up. Everett smiled.

“The kid converted his pounds into dollars at the bank. It was easy enough trailing him after that. We’re just trying to get him back home to his mother. She’s very worried about him. He ran away, see. Stole some money that wasn’t his. Just doing our job for the boss.”

Chris eyed them in that unnerving way of his, jaw clamped shut in annoyance.

“You live alone in these parts?”

Chris flicked his icy gaze to Dean. “You’re observant. I live alone and I like it that way. Now I’d appreciate it if you got off my land and let me be.”

“The folks we spoke to said the boy came up the hill to check in at the Blue Bear Inn not far from here. Only he never showed.”

“There was a storm not long ago. If this kid sounds like the likes of you, he’s not from here and wouldn’t know the strength of the blizzards we get. Most likely, he’s frozen under ten feet. You won’t find him ‘til spring.”

Everett and Dean glanced at each other.

“Mind if we take a look—.”

“Yes,” Chris said, stepping further out on the porch, forcing the men to back down the front steps. “I mind. You best tell your boss lady that the kid’s dead. Once the woods claim something, it’s as good as gone. Go on your way now. I won’t be as kind if you come back.”

They left after another moment of tension, taking the same path as the men who had come to fight Chris.

Tom met him at the door once Chris had bolted it. Chris caught him in his arms, lifting him high as they embraced. Toes skimming the floor, Tom breathed out in relief, face in Chris’s neck.

“Thank you,” he breathed, and Chris grunted with a smile, squeezing him tightly.

**

 

_Epilogue: Summer Flowers_

 

Robert Beverly dusted off his backside and bent to gather his picnic blanket. He’d left the inn only an hour before and stopped by a brook to snack on his rolls with strawberry jam. He folded the blanket and tucked it under his arm, starting down the path that would lead into the quaint little town at the base of the mountain.

He stepped over a fallen log, stooping to admire a patch of wildflowers blooming of every pastel color.

There was a snap across the way and Robert lifted his head, mouth dropping open in shock.

In a clearing between a cluster of trees and swaying green grasses stood a giant bear and a tiny fawn.

Nuzzling the bear’s hide, the little fawn bent close to the great beast, rubbing its head into the light brown fur and the bear lifted its snout into the air as something deep rumbled from its mighty chest.

Robert snapped his mouth closed, and looked every which way, wondering if anyone might be around to see this. But there was no one and when he turned back, the bear and fawn were walking together deeper into the woods, rounding a corner and disappearing.

He tore his cap off and fanned himself with it, a guffaw of surprise and wonder bursting from his mouth. Hurrying down the road on his stubby legs, he jogged up to the closest building, the grocery store.

Bursting in, he sucked in a deep breath, leaning on his knees to rest.

“Whoa, there,” said the boy behind the cash register. “You okay, buddy?”

Robert pointed back up the road, still winded.

“I saw…I saw a bear,” he gasped, and the boy rolled his eyes, returning to his magazine.

“Bears live up there. It’s not uncommon.”

“B-but there was a fawn. You know, a little deer. Standing with it. Cuddling up to it like…like they _knew_ each other!”

A woman paused in her shopping, cart squeaking to a halt.

“What’s this now?”

Another man came to stand beside Robert. “What were you saying?”

Robert repeated his story, gesturing with his arms to describe the size of the bear, and the tiny little spot that the fawn was beside it. There were gasps and more people gathered, others walking out into the street to stare up at the mountain with its dark trees and cover of clouds, believing now more than ever that there had to be something magical and dangerous about it, that the rumors were all true, that there was something strange going on up there, as if before there had ever been a smidge of doubt about the legend of the place.

**

Blinking his eyes open, Tom squinted up at the blinding sky, feeling tufts of soft grass on his skin, the flutter of butterfly wings on his nose. He scrunched his face and the butterfly flew away, floating in the breeze. He was curled up beside Chris in the front yard, both naked and covered in dirt and flower petals. He cupped Chris’s face and Chris’s eyes quivered open, blue and sparkling.

“Hello, little bug,” he whispered and rolled to gather Tom against him. They sighed into each other’s hair, hands roaming to caress hips and thighs.

“I’m starving,” Chris rumbled, and Tom flopped onto his back, laughing brightly.

“What do we have?” he said, and Chris waggled his eyebrows.

“Rabbits.”

Tom rolled his eyes and then giggled as Chris tickled his neck with his beard.

He jumped to his feet and pulled Tom up. They walked through the yard, fingers laced, another butterfly crossing their path in a lazy loop. On the tallest pine to the north, a falcon landed with a hard beat of its wings.

“I think I might have to fortify the paths to my place,” Chris said on the porch.

“Oh? Why do you think?”

“I don’t know,” he said, opening the door and leading Tom inside. “Just a feeling.”

They disappeared behind the bolted door, the wide and fragrant yard yawning out toward the tree line, grass and flowers swaying. And as the first of the bobbing lights flickered on in the woods, an easy and calm chattering of birds started softly in the branches, a soft cooing lullaby for night, the sun sinking to its rest beneath the edge of the earth.

 

 

 End. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3 Happy Holidays!!


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